I like trees because they seem more resigned to the way they have to live than other things do.
What was any art but a mould in which to imprison for a moment the shining elusive element which is life itself – life hurrying past us and running away, too strong to stop, too sweet to lose.
The heart of another is a dark forest, always, no matter how close it has been to one’s own.
The fact that I was a girl never damaged my ambitions to be a pope or an emperor.
Desire is creation, is the magical element in that process. If there were an instrument by which to measure desire, one could foretell achievement.
Most of the basic material a writer works with is acquired before the age of fifteen.
The stupid believe that to be truthful is easy; only the artist, the great artist, knows how difficult it is.
The sun was like a great visiting presence that stimulated and took its due from all animal energy. When it flung wide its cloak and stepped down over the edge of the fields at evening, it left behind it a spent and exhausted world.
When kindness has left people, even for a few moments, we become afraid of them as if their reason had left them. When it has left a place where we have always found it, it is like shipwreck; we drop from security into something malevolent and bottomless.
The miracles of the church seem to me to rest not so much upon faces or voices or healing power coming suddenly near to us from afar off, but upon our perceptions being made finer, so that for a moment our eyes can see and our ears can hear what is there about us always.
I shall not die of a cold. I shall die of having lived.
Sometimes a neighbor whom we have disliked a lifetime for his arrogance and conceit lets fall a single commonplace remark that shows us another side, another man, really; a man uncertain, and puzzled, and in the dark like ourselves.
Winter lies too long in country towns; hangs on until it is stale and shabby, old and sullen.
It does not matter much whom we live with in this world, but it matters a great deal whom we dream of.
There are only two or three human stories, and they go on repeating themselves as fiercely as if they had never happened before.