Only this shimmeriness is the real living. The shape is a dead crust. The shimmer is inside really.

All that we know is nothing, we are merely crammed wastepaper baskets, unless we are in touch with that which laughs at all our knowing.

He who gets nearer the sun is leader, the aristocrat of aristocrats, or he who, like Dostoevsky, gets nearest the moon of our non-being.

The living moment is everything.

Logic might be unanswerable because it was so absolutely wrong.

Oh literature, oh the glorious Art, how it preys upon the marrow in our bones. It scoops the stuffing out of us, and chucks us aside. Alas!

Ursula and Gudrun Brangwen sat one morning in the window-bay of their father's house in Beldover, working and talking.