42 quotes found
“And the poem, I think, is only your voice speaking.”
“I begin to long for some little language such as lovers use, broken words, inarticulate words, like the shuffling of feet on pavement.”
“Either I shall find it, or I shall not find it. I examine my note-case. I look in all my pockets. These are the things that forever interrupt the process upon which I am eternally engaged of findin...”
“Up goes the rocket. Its golden grain falls, fertilising, upon the rich soil of my imagination.”
“The real novelist, the perfectly simple human being, could go on, indefinitely imaging. ”
“When the white arm rests upon the knee it is a triangle; now it is upright - a column; now a fountain, falling. It makes no sign, it does not beckon, it does not see us. Behind it roars the sea. It...”
“Yet Byron never made tea as you do, who fill the pot so that when you put the lid on the tea spills over. There is a brown pool on the table--it is running among your books and papers. Now you mop ...”
“Something now leaves me; something goes from me to meet that figure who is coming, and assures me that I know him before I see who it is. How curiously one is changed by the addition, even at a dis...”
“But when we sit together, close, said Bernard, we melt into each other with phrases. We are edged with mist. We make an unsubstantial territory.”
“Children, our lives have been gongs striking; clamour and boasting; cries of despair; blows on the nape of the neck in gardens.”
“I reach my object and say, Wander no more. All else is trial and make-believe.”
“I desired always to stretch the night and fill it fuller and fuller with dreams.”
“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...”
“But I pine in Solitude. Solitude is my undoing.”
“I begin to be impatient of solitude - to feel its draperies hang sweltering, unwholesome about me.”
“We are only lightly covered with buttoned cloth; and beneath these pavements are shells, bones and silence.”
“I am not one and simple, but complex and many.”
“Alone, I often fall down into nothingness. I must push my foot stealthily lest I should fall off the edge of the world into nothingness. I have to bang my head against some hard door to call myself...”
“When I am grown up I shall carry a notebooka fat book with many pages, methodically lettered. I shall enter my phrases.”
“Oh, to awake from dreaming!”
