I am not so gifted as at one time seemed likely.

Women have served all these centuries as looking glasses possessing the power of reflecting the figure of man at twice its natural size.

Does housekeeping interest you at all? I think it really ought to be just as good as writing and I never see where the separation between the too comes in. At least if you must put books on one side and life on the other, each is a poor and bloodless thing; but my theory is that they mix indistinguishable.

For pain words are lacking. There should be cries, cracks, fissures, whiteness passing over chintz covers, interference with the sense of time, of space ; the sense also of extreme fixity in passing objects ; and sounds very remote and then very close ; flesh being gashed and blood sparting, a joint suddenly twisted - beneath all of which appears something very important, yet remote, to be just held in solitude.” — Virginia Woolf, The Waves

I see through most people; I'm hardly ever wrong. I see at once what they've got in them.

Nothing thicker than a knife's blade separates happiness from melancholy.

Am I a weed, carried this way, that way, on a tide that comes twice a day without a meaning?