Life, from being made up of little separate incidents which one lived one by one, became curled and whole like a wave which bore one up and threw one down with it, there, with a dash on the beach.
Let us again pretend that life is a solid substance, shaped like a globe, which we turn about in our fingers.
Let a man get up and say, “Behold, this is the truth,” and instantly I perceive a sandy cat filching a piece of fish in the background. Look, you have forgotten the cat, I say.
It’s not catastrophes, murders, deaths, diseases, that age and kill us; it’s the way people look and laugh, and run up the steps of omnibuses.
It was enemies one wanted, not friends.
It seems as if an age of genius must be succeeded by an age of endeavour; riot and extravagance by cleanliness and hard work.
It seemed to her such nonsense – inventing differences, when people, heaven knows, were different enough without that.
It might be possible that the world itself is without meaning.
It is our business to puncture gas bags and discover seeds of truth.
It is fatal to be a man or woman pure and simple; one must be woman-manly or man-womanly.
It is far harder to kill a phantom than a reality.
It is curious how instinctively one protects the image of oneself from idolatry or any other handling that could make it ridiculous, or too unlike the original to be believed in any longer.
