To work - to work! It is such infinite delight to know that we still have the best things to do.
There are always these moments in life when the limits of suffering are reached and we become heroes and heroines.
There is no feeling to be compared with the feeling of having written and finished a story.
What is it with me? Am I absolutely nobody, but merely inordinately vain? I do not know…. But I am most fearfully unhappy. That is all. I am so unhappy that I wish I was dead—yet I should be mad to die when I have not yet lived at all.
When I say "I fear" - don't let it disturb you, dearest heart. We all fear when we are in waiting-rooms. Yet we must pass beyond them, and if the other can keep calm, it is all the help we can give each other.
My love for you tonight is so deep and tender that it seems to be outside myself as well.
The whole world shall be ours because of our love.
I want, by understanding myself, to understand others.
I think of you often. Especially in the evenings, when I am on the balcony and it’s too dark to write or to do anything but wait for the stars. A time I love. One feels half disembodied, sitting like a shadow at the door of one’s being while the dark tide rises. Then comes the moon, marvellously serene, and small stars, very merry for some reason of their own. It is so easy to forget, in a worldly life, to attend to these miracles.
there does seem to me something sad in life. It is hard to say what it is. I don't mean the sorrow that we all know, like illness and poverty and death. No, it is something different. It is there, deep down, deep down, part of one, like one's breathing.
To long for everything: sorrow; to accept everything: joy.
In the shortest sea voyage there is no sense of time. You have been down in the cabin for hours or days or years. Nobody knows or cares. You know all the people to the point of indifference. You do not believe in dry land any more - you are caught in the pendulum itself, and left there, idly swinging.
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.
How hard it is to escape from places. However carefully one goes they hold you — you leave little bits of yourself fluttering on the fences — like rags and shreds of your very life.
That's all life is - something childish and very natural. Isn't it?
I am a recluse at present & do nothing but write & read & read & write
I want to be all that I am capable of becoming.
In the woods where snow is thick, bars of sunlight lay like pale fire.
if one really does try to find out why it is that people don't leave each other, one discovers a mystery. It is because they can't; they are bound. And nobody on earth knows what are the bonds that bind them except those two.
I adore Life. What do all the fools matter and all the stupidity. They do matter but somehow for me they cannot touch the body of Life. Life is marvellous. I want to be deeply rooted in it - to live - to expand - to breathe in it - to rejoice - to share it. To give and to be asked for Love.
To acknowledge the presence of fear is to give birth to failure.
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.
If you wish to live, you must first attend your own funeral.
The great thing to remember is we can do whatever we wish to do provided our wish is strong enough.
Outside the sky is light with stars
I love this place; I love mountains and big skies and forests. And the weather is still supremely beautiful even though the lower peaks are powdered with fresh snow. But Heavens! What sun. It never has an ending. I am basking at this minute - half past four - too hot without a hat, & the sky is that transparent blue only to be seen in autumn - the forest trees steeped in light.
Some couples go over their budgets very carefully every month. Others just go over them.
By health I mean the power to live a full, adult, living, breathing life in close contact with what I love - the earth and the wonders thereof - the sea - the sun, all that we mean when we speak of the external world. I want to enter into it, to be part of it, to live in it, to learn from it, to lose all that is superficial and acquired in me and to become a conscious, direct human being. I want, by understanding myself, to understand others.
Warm, eager, living life-to be rooted in life-to learn, to desire, to know, to feel, to think, to act. This is what I want. And nothing less. That is what I must try for.
All the wild sweetness of the flower Tangled against the wall. It was that magic, silent hour.... The branches grew so tall They twined themselves into a bower. The sun shown ... and the fall Of yellow blossom on the grass! You feel that golden rain? Both of you could not hold, alas, (both of you tried, in vain) A memory, stranger. So I pass.... It will not come again.
Children are unaccountable little creatures.
Regret is an appalling waste of time.
In fact, isn't it a joy - there is hardly a greater one - to find a new book, a living book, and to know that it will remain with you while life lasts?
I feel I must live alone, alone, alone - with artists only to touch the door. Every artist cuts off his ear and nails it on the outside of the door for the others to shout into.
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 don't believe other people are ever as foolishly excited as I am while I'm working. How could they be? Writers would have to live in trees.
The mind I love must have wild places.
What do you want most to do? That's what I have to keep asking myself, in the face of difficulties.
When we begin to take our failures non-seriously, it means we are ceasing to be afraid of them.
Winter is a terrible time for thin people - terrible! Why should it hound them down, fasten on them, worry them so? Why not, for a change, take a nip, take a snap at the fat ones who wouldn't notice? But no! It is sleek, warm, cat-like summer that makes the fat one's life a misery. Winter is all for bones.
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 always felt that the great high privilege, relief and comfort of friendship was that one had to explain nothing.
The pleasure of all reading is doubled when one lives with another who shares the same books.
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.
conversation is like a dear little baby that is brought in to be handed round. You must rock it, nurse it, keep it on the move if you want it to keep smiling.
I have such a horror of telegrams that ask me how I am!! I always want to reply dead.
Once we have learned to read, meaning of words can somehow register without consciousness.
... I'd always rather be with people who loved me too little rather than with people who loved me too much.
You might drop your heart into me and you'd never hear it touch bottom.
The truth is friendship is every bit as sacred and eternal as marriage.
Why it should be such an effort to write to the people one loves I can't imagine. It's none at all to write to those who don't really count.
Whenever I prepare for a journey I prepare as though for death. Should I never return, all is in order.
Everything in life that we really accept undergoes a change.
Letters are the real curse of my existence. I hate to write them: I have to. If I don't, there they are - the great guilty gates barring my way.
roses are the only flowers at garden-parties; the only flowers that everybody is certain of knowing.
By health I mean the power to live a full, adult, living, breathing life in close contact with... the earth and the wonders thereof - the sea - the sun.
I love the rain. I want the feeling of it on my face.
September is different from all other months. It is more magical. I feel the strange chemical change in the earth which produces mushrooms is the cause, too, of the extra 'life' in the air - a resilience, a sparkle.
Make it a rule of life never to regret and never to look back.
Do you remember your childhood? I am always coming across these marvelous accounts by writers who declare that they remember 'everything.' I certainly don't. The dark stretches, the blanks, are much bigger than the bright glimpses. I seem to have spent most of my time like a plant in a cupboard.
It's rather nice to think of oneself as a sailor bending over the map of one's mind and deciding where to go and how to go. The great thing to remember is we can do whatever we wish to do provided our wish is strong enough.
I am going to enjoy life in Paris I know. It is so human and there is something noble in the city... It is a real city, old and fine and life plays in it for everybody to see.
The fields are snowbound no longer; There are little blue lakes and flags of tenderest green. The snow has been caught up into the sky- So many white clouds-and the blue of the sky is cold. Now the sun walks in the forest, He touches the bows and stems with his golden fingers; They shiver, and wake from slumber. Over the barren branches he shakes his yellow curls. Yet is the forest full of the sound of tears.... A wind dances over the fields. Shrill and clear the sound of her waking laughter, Yet the little blue lakes tremble And the flags of tenderest green bend and quiver.
I love the evening star. Does that sound foolish? I used to go into the backyard, after sunset, and wait for it until it shone above the dark gum tree. I used to whisper 'There you are, my darling.' And just in that first moment it seemed to be shining for me alone. It seemed to understand this ... something which is like longing, and yet it is not longing. Or regret - it is more like regret.
Perhaps it does not matter so very much what it is one loves in this world. But love something one must.
I really only have Perfect Fun with myself. Other people won't stop and look at the things I want to look at or, if they do, they stop to please me or to humor me or to keep the peace.
If only one could tell true love from false love as one can tell mushrooms from toadstools. With mushrooms it is so simple - you salt them well, put them aside and have patience. But with love, you have no sooner lighted on anything that bears even the remotest resemblance to it than you are perfectly certain it is not only a genuine specimen, but perhaps the only genuine mushroom ungathered.
Wind moving through grass so that the grass quivers. This moves me with an emotion I don't even understand.
Looking back, I imagine I was always writing. Twaddle it was too. But better far write twaddle or anything, anything, than nothing at all.
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
Better to write twaddle, anything, than nothing at all.
It is strange that there are times when I feel the stars are not at all solemn: they are secretly gay.
How idiotic civilization is! Why be given a body if you have to keep it shut up in a case like a rare, rare fiddle?
We can do whatever we wish to do provided our wish is strong enough. But the tremendous effort needed- one doesn't always want to make it-does one? ... But what else can be done? What's the alternative? What do you want most to do? That's what I have to keep asking myself, in the face of difficulties.
Now's the time when children's noses All become as red as roses And the colour of their faces Makes me think of orchard places Where the juicy apples grow, And tomatoes in a row.
Regret is an appalling waste of energy, and no one who intends to be a writer can afford to indulge in it.
Ach, Tchekov! Why are you dead? Why can’t I talk to you in a big darkish room at late evening—where the light is green from the waving trees outside? I’d like to write a series of Heavens: that would be one.
What can you do if you are thirty and, turning the corner of your own street, you are overcome, suddenly, by a feeling of bliss - absolute bliss - as though you'd suddenly swallowed a bright piece of that late afternoon sun and it burned in your bosom, sending out a little shower of sparks into every particle into every finger and toe?
But the more poetry one reads the more one longs to read!
If only one could tell true love from false love as one can tell mushrooms from toadstools.
I must say, I hate money. But it's the lack of it I hate most.
There are in life as many aspects as attitudes towards it, and aspects change with attitudes.
Oh, impossible. Fancy cream puffs so soon after breakfast. The very idea made one shudder. All the same, two minutes later Jose and Laura were licking their fingers with that absorbed inward look that only comes from whipped cream.
Do the hardest thing on earth for you. ACT YOURSELF.
Life never become a habit to me. It's always a marvel.
I want, by understanding myself, to understand others. I want to be all that I am capable of becoming.... This all sounds very strenuous and serious. But now that I have wrestled with it, it's no longer so. I feel happy- deep down. All is well.
Why! Why! Why is the middle-class so stodgy - so utterly without a sense of humor?
Courage is like a disobedient dog, once it starts running away it flies all the faster for your attempts to recall it.
To be alive and to be a ‘writer’ is enough.
It is of immense importance to learn to laugh at ourselves.
I'm a writer first and a woman after.
we cling to our last pleasures as the tree clings to its last leaves.
Yes, my mother's death is a terrible sorrow to me. I feel - do you know what I mean - the silence of it so. She was more alive than anyone I have ever known.
Every time one leaves anywhere, something precious, which ought not to be killed, is left to die.
Tidied all my papers. Tore up and ruthlessly destroyed much. This is always a great satisfaction.
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.
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.
Ah, what happiness it is to be with people who all are happy, to press hands, press cheeks, smile into eyes.
I saw myself driving through Eternity in a timeless taxi.
That is the fearful part of having been near death. One knows how easy it is to die. The barriers that are up for everybody else are down for you, and you've only to slip through.
England is merely an island of beef swimming in a warm gulf stream of gravy.
No, no the mind I love must still have wild places - a tangled orchard where dark damsons drop in the heavy grass, an overgrown litde wood, the chance of a snake or two (real snakes), a pool that nobody's fathomed the depth of, and paths threaded with those litde flowers planted by the wind.
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.
I love the night. I love to feel the tide of darkness rising, slowly and slowly washing, turning over and over, lifting, floating, all that lies strewn upon the dark beach, all that lies hid in rocky hollows.
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.
What happiness it is to listen to rain at night; joyful relief, ease; a lapping-round and hushing and brooding tenderness, all are mingled together in the sound of the fast-falling rain. God, looking down upon the rainy earth, sees how faint are these lights shining in little windows, - how easily put out.
You have never been curious about me; you never wanted to explore my soul.
As in the physical world, so in the spiritual world, pain does not last forever.
I think I hate snow, downright hate it. There is something stupefying in it, a kind of 'You must be worse before you're better,' and down it spins.
Oh, how quickly things changed! Why didn't happiness last for ever? For ever wasn't a bit too long.
I want so to live that I work with my hands and my feeling and my brain. I want a garden, a small house, grass, animals, books, pictures, music. And out of this, the expression of this, I want to be writing (Though I may write about cabmen. That’s no matter.) But warm, eager, living life — to be rooted in life — to learn, to desire, to feel, to think, to act. This is what I want. And nothing less. That is what I must try for.
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.
Who is to decide between 'Let it be' and 'Force it'?
Could we change our attitude, we should not only see life differently, but life itself would come to be different.
Bless you, my darling, and remember you are always in the heart - oh tucked so close there is no chance of escape - of your sister.
I am poor - obscure - just eighteen years of age - with a rapacious appetite for everything and principles as light as my purse.
Can one do nothing for the dead? And for a long time the answer had been - Nothing!
You are a Queen. Let mine be the joy of giving you your kingdom.
Whatever happens I have had these blissful, perfect moments and they are worth living for.
