Rose doesn't like the flat country, but I always did - flat country seems to give the sky such a chance.
Rose doesn't like the flat country, but I always did - flat country seems to give the sky such a chance.
Stew's so comforting on a rainy day.
Still, looking through the old volumes was soothing, because thinking of the past made the present seem a little less real.
The key to all knowledge comes in words of just one syllable, apparently.... There's only the last page left to write on. I'll fill it with words of just one syllable. I love. I have loved. I will love.
Thinking of death--strange, beautiful, terrible and a long way off--made me feel happier than ever.
Topaz was wonderfully patient - but sometimes I wonder if it is not only patience, but also a faint resemblance to cows.
We were restless for ages...After a while I heard an owl hooting and calmed myself by thinking of it flying over the dark fields - and then I remembered it would be pouncing on mice. I love owls, but I wish God had made them vegetarian.
When I read a book, I put in all the imagination I can, so that it is almost like writing the book as well as reading it -- or rather, it is like living it. It makes reading so much more exciting, but I don't suppose many people try to do it.
While I have been writing I have lived in the past, the light of it has been all around me...
Why is summer mist romantic and autumn mist just sad?
Perhaps if I make myself write I shall find out what is wrong with me.
Perhaps watching someone you love suffer can teach you even more than suffering yourself can.
Prayer's a very tricky business.
Father says hot water can be as stimulating as an alcoholic drink and though I never come by one...I can well believe it.
I wonder if there isn't a catch about having plenty of money? Does it eventually take the pleasure out of things?
How can a young man like to wear a beard?
I write this sitting in the kitchen sink.
How I wish I lived in a Jane Austen novel!
If you love people, you take them on trust.
I am surprised to see how much I have written; with stories even a page can take me hours, but the truth seems to flow out as fast as I can get it down.
It came to me that Hyde Park has never belonged to London - that it has always been , in spirit, a stretch of countryside; and that it links the Londons of all periods together most magically - by remaining forever unchanged at the heart of a ever-changing town.
I believe it is customary to get one's washing over first in baths and bask afterwards; personally, I bask first. I have discovered that the first few minutes are the best and not to be wasted-- my brain always seethes with ideas and life suddenly looks much better than did.
It is part of a follow-my-leader game of second-best we have all been playing . . . it isn't a very good game; the people you play it with are apt to get hurt.
I could hear rain still pouring from the gutters and a thin branch scraping against one of the windows; but the church seemed completely cut off from the restless day outside--just as I felt cut off from the church. I thought: I am a restlessness inside a stillness inside a restlessness.
It is rather exciting to write by moonlight.
Ah, but you're the insidious type--Jane Eyre with of touch of Becky Sharp. A thoroughly dangerous girl.
I could marry the Devil himself if he had some money.
It's odd how different a house feels when one is alone in it. It makes it easier to think rather private thoughts...
Am I really admitting that my sister is determined to marry a man she has only seen once and doesn't much like the look of? It is half real and half pretense - and I have an idea that it is a game most girls play when they meet an eligible young men. They just...wonder.
I found it quite easy to carry on a casual conversation it was as if my real feelings were down fathoms deep in my mind and what we said was just a feathery surface spray.
Just to be in love seemed the most blissful luxury I had ever known. The thought came to me that perhaps it is the loving that counts, not the being loved in return -- that perhaps true loving can never know anything but happiness. For a moment I felt that I had discovered a great truth.
Americans do seem to say things which make the English notice England.
I have noticed that rooms which are extra clean feel extra cold
My hand is very tired but I want to go on writing. I keep resting and thinking. All day I have been two people - the me imprisoned in yesterday and the me out here on the mound; and now there is a third me trying to get in - the me in what is going to happen next.
And no bathroom on earth will make up for marrying a bearded man you hate.
I have really sinned. I am going to pause now, and sit here on the mound repenting in deepest shame...
Oh I daresay she can't help it - she's one of the women who oughn't be loved too kindly when they are some primitive desire for brutality makes them try to provoke it.
But her voice sounded wistful. It is one of her theories that a woman must never be jealous, never try to hold man against his will; but I could tell that she hadn't enjoyed seeing someone else bring father to life.
I know all about the facts of life, and I don't think much of them.
Oh, it is wonderful to wake up in the morning with things to look forward to!
But some characters in books are really real--Jane Austen's are; and I know those five Bennets at the opening of Pride and Prejudice, simply waiting to raven the young men at Netherfield Park, are not giving one thought to the real facts of marriage.
I like seeing people when they can't see me.
Only the margin left to write on now. I love you, I love you, I love you.
Certain unique books seem to be without forerunners or successors as far as their authors are concerned. Even though they may profoundly influence the work of other writers, for their creator they're complete, not leading anywhere.
I only want to write. And there's no college for that except life.
People's clothes ought to be buried with them.
Cruel blows of fate call for extreme kindness in the family circle.
I shouldn't think even millionaires could eat anything nicer than new bread and real butter and honey for tea.
Even a broken heart doesn't warrant a waste of good paper.
I suppose the best kind of spring morning is the best weather God has to offer.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories