The pleasure of all reading is doubled when one lives with another who shares the same books.
The mind I love must have wild places.
Ah, what happiness it is to be with people who are all happy, to press hands, press cheeks, smile into eyes.
Risk anything! Care no more for the opinion of others ... Do the hardest thing on earth for you. Act for yourself. Face the truth." (Journal entry, 14 October 1922)
Make it a rule of life never to regret and never to look back. Regret is an appalling waste of energy; you can't build on it; it's only good for wallowing in.
What I feel for you can’t be conveyed in phrasal combinations; It either screams out loud or stays painfully silent but I promise — it beats words. It beats worlds.
I always felt that the great high privilege, relief and comfort of friendship, was that one had to explain nothing
I am treating you as my friend, asking you to share my present minuses in the hope that I can ask you to share my future plusses.
I have made it a rule of my life never to regret and never to look back. Regret is an appalling waste of energy... you can't build on it; it's only good for wallowing in.
I saw myself driving through Eternity in a timeless taxi.
This is not a letter but my arms about you for a brief moment.
You have never been curious about me; you never wanted to explore my soul.
Would you not like to try all sorts of lives - one is so very small - but that is the satisfaction of writing - one can impersonate so many people.
When we begin to take our failures non-seriously, it means we are ceasing to be afraid of them.
It's a terrible thing to be alone -- yes it is -- it is -- but don't lower your mask until you have another mask prepared beneath -- as terrible as you like -- but a mask.
I am a recluse at present & do nothing but write & read & read & write
I have such a horror of telegrams that ask me how I am!! I always want to reply dead.
I imagine I was always writing. Twaddle it was, too. But better far write twaddle or anything, anything, than nothing at all.
Isn't life,' she stammered, 'isn't life--' But what life was she couldn't explain. No matter. He quite understood. 'Isn't it, darling?' said Laurie.
To be alive and to be a ‘writer’ is enough.
To acknowledge the presence of fear is to give birth to failure.
How beautiful she loked, but there was nobody to see, nobody.
Care no more for the opinions of others, for those voices. Do the hardest thing on earth for you. Act for yourself. Face the truth.
The truth is that every true admirer of the novels cherishes the happy thought that he alone - reading between the lines - has bcome the secret friend of their author.
Outside the sky is light with stars
The whole world shall be ours because of our love.
She had become really quite expert, she thought, at listening as though she didn't listen, at sitting in other people's lives just for a minute while they talked round her.
Oh, how quickly things changed! Why didn't happiness last for ever? For ever wasn't a bit too long.
Everything in life that we really accept undergoes a change. So suffering must become Love. That is the mystery.
It is of immense importance to learn to laugh at ourselves.
Light as feathers the witches fly, The horn of the moon is plain to see; By a firefly under a jonquil flower A goblin toasts a bumble-bee.
... always with that magical child air about her, that delightful sense of perpetually attending a party.
I'm a writer first and a woman after.
You are a Queen. Let mine be the joy of giving you your kingdom.
Risk! Risk anything! Care no more for the opinions of others, for those voices. Do the hardest thing on earth for you. Act for yourself. Face the truth.
I am poor - obscure - just eighteen years of age - with a rapacious appetite for everything and principles as light as my purse.
What I feel for you can’t be conveyed in phrasal combinations; It either screams out loud or stays painfully silent but I promise — it beats words. It beats worlds. I promise.
When we reached home your cheeks were like roses, and your eyes were shining like stars, and you tried to tell Mummy so much in one breath that I thought you would burst.
But, my darling, if you love me,' thought Miss Meadows, 'I don't mind how much it is. Love me as little as you like.
The ostrich burying its head in the sand does at any rate wish to convey the impression that its head is the most important part of it.
When she looked through the dark windows at the stars, they had long beams like wings...
EM Forster never gets any further than warming the tea pot... Is it not beautifully warm? Yes, but there ain't going to be no tea.
Do you feel in this letter my love for you today - It is as warm as a bird's nest.
Oh, with you, I could conquer the world - oh, with you I could catch hold of the moon like a little silver sixpence.
E. M. Forster never gets any further than warming the teapot. He's a rare fine hand at that. Feel this teapot. Is it not beautifully warm? Yes, but there ain't going to be no tea.
Sleeping was her latest discovery. 'It's so wonderful. One simply shuts one's eyes, that's all. It's so delicious.
Oh,' said the little girl, 'my head's on your heart; I can hear it going. What a big heart you've got, father dear.
I am always conscious of this secret disruption in me
Love! Love! Your tenderness, Your beautiful, watchful ways
We might be fifty, we might be five, So snug, so compact, so wise are we! Under the kitchen-table leg My knee is pressing against his knee.
Il piacere di leggere è doppio quando si vive con qualcuno che divide con te gli stessi libri.
... A wet night. They are going home together under an umbrella. They stop on the door to press their wet cheeks together.
I can never be perfectly certain whether Helen was got with child by Leonard Bast or by his fatal forgotten umbrella. All things considered, I think it must have been the umbrella.
... but that is the satisfaction of writing - one can impersonate so many people.
The late evening is the time of times. Then with that unearthly beauty before one it is not hard to realise how far one has to go. To write something that will be worthy of that rising moon, that pale light.
We are solitary creatures au fond. It hapens so rarely that one feels another understands. But when one does feel it, it's not only a joy, it's a help and comfort in dark moments.
Regret is an appalling waste of energy, and no one who intends to be a writer can afford to indulge in it.
But one day we shall be rich, and the next poor. One day we shall dine in a palace and the next we'll sit in a forest and toast mushrooms on a hatpin….
How beautiful she looked, but there was nobody to see, nobody.
Looking back I imagine I was always writing. Twaddle it was too. But better far write twaddle or anything anything than nothing at all.
The lights, the azaleas, the dresses, the pink faces, the velvet chairs, all became one beautiful flying wheel.
Shadow children, thin and small, Now the day is left behind, You are dancing on the wall, On the curtains, on the blind.
As for the roses, you could not help feeling they understood that roses are the only flowers that impress people at garden-parties; the only flowers that everybody is certain of knowing.
What did garden-parties and baskets and lace frocks matter to him? He was far from all those things. He was wonderful, beautiful.
And it seemed to her that kisses, voices, tinkling spoons, laughter, the smell of crushed grass were somehow inside her.
It's not your fault. Don't think that. It's just fate.
