She belonged to a different age, but being so entire, so complete, would always stand up on the horizon, stone-white, eminent, like a lighthouse marking some past stage on this adventurous, long, long voyage, this interminable --- this interminable life.

Love and religion! thought Clarissa, going back into the drawing room, tingling all over. How detestable, how detestable they are!

As I grow old I hate the writing of letters more and more, and like getting them better and better.

The truth is, I often like women. I like their unconventionality. I like their completeness. I like their anonymity.

It is a thousand pities never to say what one feels.

For it is probable that when people talk aloud, the selves (of which there may be more than two thousand) are conscious of disserverment, and are trying to communicate but when communication is established there is nothing more to be said.

There must be another life, she thought, sinking back into her chair, exasperated. Not in dreams; but here and now, in this room, with living people. She felt as if she were standing on the edge of a precipice with her hair blown back; she was about to grasp something that just evaded her. There must be another life, here and now, she repeated. This is too short, too broken. We know nothing, even about ourselves.