How can I express the darkness?

A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.

Blame it or praise it, there is no denying the wild horse in us.

Every face, every shop, bedroom window, public-house, and dark square is a picture feverishly turned--in search of what? It is the same with books. What do we seek through millions of pages?

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

Masterpieces are not single and solitary births; they are the outcome of many years of thinking in common, of thinking by the body of the people, so that the experience of the mass is behind the single voice.

The strange thing about life is that though the nature of it must have been apparent to every one for hundreds of years, no one has left any adequate account of it.