A good book is the precious life-blood of a master-spirit, embalmed and treasured up on purpose to a life beyond life, and as such it must surely be a necessary commodity.
He said, aloud, ‘The external world is the world of shadows. It throws its shadows into the kingdom of light. How different they will appear when this darkness is gone and the shadow-body has passed away. The universe, after all, is within us. The way leads inward, always inwards.
Broadcasting House was in fact dedicated to the strangest project of the war, or of any war, that is, telling the truth. Without prompting, the BBC had decided that truth was more important than consolation, and, in the long run, would be more effective. And yet there was no guarantee of this. Truth ensures trust, but not victory, or even happiness.
I enjoy very little leisure in the evenings. But don’t misunderstand me, I find a good book at my bedside of incalculable value. When I eventually retire I’ve no sooner read a few pages than I’m overwhelmed with sleep.
She ought to go down to the beach. It was Thursday, early closing, and it seemed ungrateful to live so close to the sea and never look at it for weeks on end.
Annie – although she also knew that those who don’t speak have to pay it off in thinking – was resolved on silence. Whatever happened, and after all she was obliged to see Mr brooks two or three times every day, though she by no means looked forward to it, feeling herself more truly alive when she could picture him steadily without seeing him – whatever happened, he needn’t know how daft she was.
Her view of the world was that it divided into ‘exterminators’ and ‘exterminatees’. She would say: ‘I am drawn to people who seem to have been born defeated or even profoundly lost.’ She was a humorous writer with a tragic sense of life.
Not to succeed in one thing is to fail in all.’ Far more frightening than any poltergeist is the spectre of loneliness in old age.
If you can’t face living your life day by day, you must live it minute by minute.
Algebra, like laudanum, deadens pain, Fritz wrote.
They started with Big Ben. It’s always got to be relayed direct from Westminster, the real thing, never from disc. That’s got to be firmly fixed in the listeners’ minds. Then, if Big Ben is silent, the public will know that the war has taken a distinctly unpleasant turn.
The barge anchors were unrecognisable as such, more like crustaceans, specimens of some giant type long since discarded by Nature, but still clinging to their old habitat, sunk in the deep pits they had made in the foreshore. But under the ground they were half rusted away. Dreadnought’s anchor had come up easily enough when the salvage tug came to dispose of her. The mud which held so tenaciously could also give way in a moment, if conditions altered.
Let’s say that matters hadn’t gone quite right with you, I mean personal matters, would you be able to find words to say exactly what was wrong?’ ‘I’m afraid so, yes, I would.’ ‘That might be useful, of course.’ ‘Like manufacturers’ instructions. In case of failure, try words.
I’m afraid I’m not accustomed to the poor light, Mrs James.’ ‘Look at the sky, father. Keep your eyes on the lightest part of the sky and they’ll adapt little by little.
Yes, the irreplaceables, the things you never use – those are what really matters. I’ve got a damask table-cloth, you know, and napkins to match for 24 people. I’ve heard it said that a woman’s possessions are part of herself. If she loses her things, her personality undergoes a change.
All Fitzgerald’s books are the product of maturity, reflection, the quickly touched depth of accumulated knowledge and long experience. Their creation reflects the new sense of opportunity that may come with the bereavements and displacements of later life.
It’s a peculiar thing to take a step forward in middle age, but having done it I don’t intend to retreat.
I think one should never be too busy to teach those who are anxious to learn.
Her feeling for Mr Brooks was so much the most important part of her life that it seemed like something which did not belong to her, but which she had to carry about with her, at work or in her room, there was no difference. She had a kind of affection, too, for the love itself, which was so strong, but maintained itself on so little. There had been a time, not at all long ago, when she hadn’t had this responsibility, but it was hard for her to remember how she had felt then.
They were all kind to their hostess, because it made life easier.
It was like one of those terrible sights of the racecourse or the battle field where wallowing living beings persevere dumbly in their duty although mutilated beyond repair.