But our hatred is almost indistinguishable from our love.

Conversation, fastidious goddess, loves blood better than brick, and feasts most subtly on the human will.

I cannot remember my past, my nose, or the colour of my eyes, or what my general opinion of myself is. Only in moments of emergency, at a crossing, at a kerb, the wish to preserve my body springs out and seizes me and stops me , here, before this omnibus. We insist, it seems, on living. Then again, indifference descends.

At last she shut the book sharply, lay back, and drew a deep breath, expressive of the wonder which always marks the transition from the imaginary world to the real world.

Green in nature is one thing, green in literature another. Nature and letters seem to have a natural antipathy; bring them together and they tear each other to pieces.

Never let anybody guess that you have a mind of your own. Above all be pure

I am in the mood to dissolve in the sky.