She felt... how 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 with it and threw one down with it, there, with a dash on the beach.

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Let us again pretend that life is a solid substance, shaped like a globe, which we turn about in our fingers. Let us pretend that we can make out a plain and logical story, so that when one matter is despatched�love for instance � we go on, in an orderly manner, to the next.

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Was not writing poetry a secret transaction, a voice answering a voice?

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To love makes one solitary.

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I am made and remade continually. Different people draw different words from me.

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I really don't advise a woman who wants to have things her own way to get married.

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She thought there were no Gods; no one was to blame; and so she evolved this atheist's religion of doing good for the sake of goodness.

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It might be possible that the world itself is without meaning.

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So long as you write what you wish to write, that is all that matters; and whether it matters for ages or only for hours, nobody can say.

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The beauty of the world... has two edges, one of laughter, one of anguish, cutting the heart asunder.

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