The beautiful seems right by force of beauty, and the feeble wrong because of weakness.
It is far more difficult to murder a phantom than a reality.
Thought and theory must precede all salutary action; yet action is nobler in itself than either thought or theory.
It is the nature of the artist to mind excessively what is said about him. Literature is strewn with the wreckage of men who have minded beyond reason the opinions of others.
As a woman I have no country. As a woman my country is the whole world.
Books are the mirrors of the soul.
I feel all shadows of the universe multiplied deep inside my skin.
Truth had run through my fingers. Every drop had escaped.
It is as if Emily BrontÃ« could tear up all that we know human beings by, and fill these unrecognizable transparencies with such a gust of life that they transcend reality.
I have a deeply hidden and inarticulate desire for something beyond the daily life.
No need to hurry. No need to sparkle. No need to be anybody but oneself.
No passion is stronger in the breast of a man than the desire to make others believe as he believes. Nothing so cuts at the root of his happiness and fills him with rage as the sense that another rates low what he prizes high.
This soul, or life within us, by no means agrees with the life outside us. If one has the courage to ask her what she thinks, she is always saying the very opposite to what other people say.
For this moment, this one moment, we are together. I press you to me. Come, pain, feed on me. Bury your fangs in my flesh. Tear me asunder. I sob, I sob.
The only advice ... that one person can give another about reading is to take no advice, to follow your own instincts, to use your own reason, to come to your own conclusions.
I will not be "famous," "great." I will go on adventuring, changing, opening my mind and my eyes, refusing to be stamped and stereotyped. The thing is to free one's self: to let it find its dimensions, not be impeded.
A self that goes on changing is a self that goes on living.
I see you everywhere, in the stars, in the river, to me you're everything that exists; the reality of everything.
A feminist is any woman who tells the truth about her life
If you do not tell the truth about yourself you cannot tell it about other people.
In solitude we give passionate attention to our lives, to our memories, to the details around us.
How much better is silence; the coffee cup, the table. How much better to sit by myself like the solitary sea-bird that opens its wings on the stake. Let me sit here for ever with bare things, this coffee cup, this knife, this fork, things in themselves, myself being myself.
You cannot find peace by avoiding life.
A writer should give direct certainty; explanations are so much water poured into the wine.
No sooner have you feasted on beauty with your eyes than your mind tells you that beauty is vain and beauty passes
The truth is, I often like women. I like their unconventionality. I like their completeness. I like their anonymity.
But how entirely I live in my imagination; how completely depend upon spurts of thought, coming as I walk, as I sit; things churning up in my mind and so making a perpetual pageant, which is to be my happiness.
Lock up your libraries if you like; but there is no gate, no lock, no bolt that you can set upon the freedom of my mind.
To be silent; to be alone. All the being and the doing, expansive, glittering, vocal, evaporated; and one shrunk, with a sense of solemnity, to being oneself, a wedge-shaped core of darkness, something invisible to others.
And all the lives we ever lived and all the lives to be are full of trees and changing leaves.
For it would seem - her case proved it - that we write, not with the fingers, but with the whole person. The nerve which controls the pen winds itself about every fibre of our being, threads the heart, pierces the liver.
Madness is terrific I can assure you, and not to be sniffed at; and in its lava I still find most of the things I write about. It shoots out of one everything shaped, final, not in mere driblets, as sanity does.
Never let anybody guess that you have a mind of your own. Above all be pure
For love... has two faces; one white, the other black; two bodies; one smooth, the other hairy. It has two hands, two feet, two tails, two, indeed, of every member and each one is the exact opposite of the other. Yet, so strictly are they joined together
Never pretend that the things you haven't got are not worth having.
I detest the masculine point of view. I am bored by his heroism, virtue, and honour. I think the best these men can do is not talk about themselves anymore.
When, however, one reads of a witch being ducked, of a woman possessed by devils, of a wise woman selling herbs, or even a very remarkable man who had a mother, then I think we are on the track of a lost novelist, a suppressed poet. . . indeed, I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.
Be truthful, and the result is bound to be amazingly interesting.
How many times have people used a pen or paintbrush because they couldn't pull the trigger?
Above all you must illumine your own soul with its profundities and its shallows, and its vanities and its generosities, and say what your beauty means to you or your plainness, and what is your relation to the ever-changing and turning world.