But it struck him that people are not really dead until they are felt to be dead. As long as there is some misunderstanding about them, they possess a sort of immortality.
Either life entails courage, or it ceases to be life.
There’s never any great risk as long as you have money.
He had shown her all the workings of his soul, mistaking this for love.
She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship.
I think you’re beautiful, the only beautiful person I’ve ever seen. I love your voice and everything to do with you, down to your clothes or the room you are sitting in. I adore you.
He had known so much about her once -what she thought, how she felt, the reasons for her actions. And now he only knew that he loved her, and all the other knowledge seemed passing from him just as he needed it most.
Of course he despised the world as a whole; every thoughtful man should; it is almost a test of refinement.
Do we find happiness so often that we should turn it off the box when it happens to sit there?
Men were not gods after all, but as human and as clumsy as girls.
I don’t think literature will be purged until its philosophic pretentiousness is extruded, and I shant live to see that purge, nor perhaps when it has happened will anything survive.
All invitations must proceed from heaven perhaps; perhaps it is futile for men to initiate their own unity, they do but widen the gulfs between them by the attempt.
There’s nothing like a debate to teach one quickness. I often wish I had gone in for them when I was a youngster. It would have helped me no end.
It is now only in letters I write what I feel: not in literature any more, and I seldom say it, because I keep trying to be amusing.
Democracy is not a Beloved Republic really, and never will be. But it is less hateful than other contemporary forms of government, and to that extent deserves our support.
If God could tell the story of the Universe, the Universe would become fictitious.
It is the starved imagination, not the well nourished, that is afraid.
I seem fated to pass through the world without colliding with it or moving it – and I’m sure I can’t tell you whether the fate’s good or evil. I don’t die – I don’t fall in love. And if other people die or fall in love they always do it when I’m just not there.
Paganism is infectious, more infectious than diphtheria or piety.
Men yearn for poetry though they may not confess it; they desire that joy shall be graceful and sorrow august and infinity have a form.
My conviction gains infinitely the moment another soul will believe in it.