No need to hurry. No need to sparkle. No need to be anybody but oneself.
Never pretend that the things you haven’t got are not worth having.
Never are voices so beautiful as on a winter’s evening, when dusk almost hides the body, and they seem to issue from nothingness with a note of intimacy seldom heard by day.
My belief is that if we live another century or so – I am talking of the common life which is the real life and not of the little separate lives which we live as individuals – and have five hundred a year each of us and rooms of our own; if we have the habit of freedom and the courage to write exactly what we think.
Mental fight means thinking against the current, not with it.
Melancholy were the sounds on a winter’s night.
Masterpieces are not single and solitary births; they are the outcome of many years of thinking in common, of thinking by the body of the people, so that the experience of the mass is behind the single voice.
Madness is terrific I can assure you, and not to be sniffed at; and in its lava I still find most of the things I write about. It shoots out of one everything shaped, final, not in mere driblets, as sanity does.
Love, the poet has said, is woman’s whole existence.
Love ought to stop on both sides, don’t you think, simultaneously? But it won’t – that’s the devil.
Love had a thousand shapes.
Literature is strewn with the wreckage of men who have minded beyond reason the opinions of others.
