For once the disease of reading has laid upon the system it weakens so that it falls an easy prey to that other scourge which dwells in the ink pot and festers in the quill. The wretch takes to writing.

It seemed to her such nonsense-inventing differences, when people, heaven knows, were different enough without that.

Life is not a series of gig lamps symmetrically arranged; life is a luminous halo, a semi-transparent envelope surrounding us from the beginning of consciousness to the end.

Why, if it was an illusion, not praise the catastrophe, whatever it was, that destroyed illusion and put truth in it's place?

Criticism? An artist wants praise. Praise.

Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself.

One likes people much better when they're battered down by a prodigious siege of misfortune than when they triumph.