Our apparitions, the things you know us by, are simply childish. Beneath it is all dark, it is all spreading, it is unfathomably deep; but now and again we rise to the surface and that is what you see us by.

I worship you, but I loathe marriage. I hate its smugness, its safety, its compromise and the thought of you interfering with my work, hindering me; what would you answer?

History is too much about wars; biography too much about great men.

If we face the fact, for it is a fact, that there is no arm to cling to, but that we go alone and that our relation is to the world of reality and not only to the world of men and women.

I am reading Henry James...and feel myself as one entombed in a block of smooth amber.

I prefer men to cauliflowers

Mrs Dalloway is always giving parties to cover the silence