Quotes of All Topics . Occasions . Authors
Only longing can fill with more of itself.
The world is crammed with delightful things
The way to write well is to live intensely.
I am writing to a rhythm and not to a plot.
Her life was a tissue of vanity and deceit.
For most of history, Anonymous was a woman.
What a comfort is friendship in this world.
Would there be trees if we didn't see them?
Up here my eyes are green leaves, unseeing.
It was a silly, silly dream, being unhappy.
literature is the record of our discontent.
The truer the facts the better the fiction.
That complete statement which is literature.
For pleasure has no relish unless we share it.
To enjoy freedom we have to control ourselves.
I like to have space to spread my mind out in.
All extremes of feeling are allied to madness.
It's my choice, to choose how to live my life.
Lord, how tired one gets of one's own writing.
Nothing, I know, had any chance against death.
To read a novel is a difficult and complex art.
Melancholy were the sounds on a winter's night.
The depths of the sea are only water after all.
That great Cathedral space which was childhood.
But I pine in Solitude. Solitude is my undoing.
My brain hums with scraps of poetry and madness.
Love, the poet said, is woman's whole existence.
Money dignifies what is frivolous if unpaid for.
I am not so gifted as at one time seemed likely.
and even a tea party means apprehension, breakage
We shall be the mouthpieces of the divine spirit—
Writing is still like heaving bricks over a wall.
He who robs us of our dreams robs us of our life.
The older one grows, the more one likes indecency.
what she loved: life, London, this moment of june.
Intellectual freedom depends upon material things.
It is far harder to kill a phantom than a reality.
To know whom to write for is to know how to write.
In illness words seem to possess a mystic quality.
If it were now to die, 'twere now to be most happy.
. . . to walk alone in London is the greatest rest.
Distorted realities have always been my cup of tea.
On or about December 1910, human character changed.
What does the brain matter compared with the heart?
And the poem, I think, is only your voice speaking.
It is a thousand pities never to say what one feels.
Incessant company is as bad as solitary confinement.
But beauty must be broken daily to remain beautiful.
There'll be oceans of talk and emotions without end.
Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself.