I want to write a novel about Silence," he said; “the things people don’t say.
When I am grown up I shall carry a notebook—a fat book with many pages, methodically lettered. I shall enter my phrases.
But when we sit together, close,’ said Bernard, ‘we melt into each other with phrases. We are edged with mist. We make an unsubstantial territory.
As a woman I have no country. As a woman my country is the whole world.
There was no freedom in life, and certainly there was none in death.
A writer should give direct certainty; explanations are so much water poured into the wine.