Quotes from Katherine Mansfield

Estaban paradas en los peldaños cuando el alto montículo de césped sobre el que reposaba la sábila se alzó como una ola; la sábila parecía navegar encima como un barco con los remos levantados. El brillante claro de luna bañaba los remos como si fuera agua y en la ola verde centelleaba el rocío.

Beryl apoyó los codos sobre la mesa y releyó la carta. La voz parecía emanar del papel. Ya sonaba distante, como una voz que se oye por teléfono, alta, efusiva, con algo amargo en el tono. ¡Cómo la detestaba hoy!

The shortness of life! The shortness of life!' I've only one night or one day, and there's this vast dangerous garden, waiting out there, undiscovered, unexplored.

Very early morning. The sun was not yet risen, and the whole of Crescent Bay was hidden under a white sea-mist. The big bush-covered hills at the back were smothered. You could not see where they ended and the paddocks and bungalows began.

Finally the little flat spoons lay still on the glass plates. Hennie looked rather exhausted, but she pulled on her white gloves again. She had some trouble with her diamond wrist-watch; it got in her way.

And suddenly she raised her muff as though her hands were clasped inside it, and she was telling the pale, sweaty garçon by that action that she was at the end of her resources, that she cried out to him to save her with "Tea. Immediately!" * * * * This seemed to me so amazingly in the picture, so exactly the gesture and cry that one would expect (though I couldn't have imagined it) to be wrung out of an Englishwoman faced with a great crisis

Very early morning. The sun was not yet risen, and the whole of Crescent Bay was hidden under a white sea-mist. The big bush-covered hills at the back were smothered. You could not see where

I hate whisky. Every time I take it into my mouth my stomach rises against it, and the stuff they keep here is sure to be particularly vile. I only ordered it because I am going to write about an Englishman. We French are incredibly old-fashioned and out of date still in some ways.

Ölü insanlar?n fotoÄŸraflar? neden hep böyle soluk oluyor, diye merak etti Josephine. Bir insan ölür ölmez fotoÄŸraf? da ölüyordu.

masses of broken rock, a flock of sheep came pattering. They were huddled together, a small, tossing, woolly mass, and their thin, stick-like legs trotted along quickly as if the cold and the quiet

Hail, brother! All hail, Thou Mighty One!" A velvety bass voice came booming over the water. Great Scott! Damnation take it!

En cuanto a las rosas, daba la sensación de que sabían muy bien que eran las únicas flores capaces de impresionar a los invitados; son las únicas flores que todos conocen. Cientos, sí, literalmente cientos se habían abierto durante la noche; los verdes rosales se doblegaban bajo su peso como si los hubiesen visitado unos arcángeles.

Y ¡Aquel aire! ¿Era el aire siempre así? Unas brisas tenues jugaban a perseguirse: entraban por lo alto de las ventanas y salían por las puertas. Había dos manchas de sol chiquitinas, una sobre el tintero y otra en el marco de plata de una fotografía. Unas manchitas preciosas, sobre todo la de la tapa del tintero. Era muy cálida, una cálida estrellita de plata. Sintió el impulso de besarla.

Se había convertido en toda una experta, pensó, en escuchar como si no escuchara, en penetrar fugazmente en las vidas de las personas que hablaban a su alrededor.

Through a square hall filled with bales and hundreds of parrots (but the parrots were only on the wall-paper) down a narrow passage where the parrots persisted in flying past Kezia with her lamp.

If you're going to stop a band playing every time some one has an accident, you'll lead a very strenuous life.

How long did they stand there? Both, as it were, caught in that circle of unearthly light, understanding each other perfectly, creatures of another world, and wondering what they were to do in this one with all this blissful treasure that burned in their bosoms and dropped, in silver flowers, from their hair and hands?

The pleasure of all reading is doubled when one lives with another who shares the same books.

The mind I love must have wild places.

Ah, what happiness it is to be with people who are all happy, to press hands, press cheeks, smile into eyes.

Make it a rule of life never to regret and never to look back. Regret is an appalling waste of energy; you can't build on it; it's only good for wallowing in.

The mind I love must have wild places, a tangled orchard where dark damsons drop in the heavy grass, an overgrown little wood, the chance of a snake or two, a pool that nobody's fathomed the depth of, and paths threaded with flowers planted by the mind.

What I feel for you can't be conveyed in phrasal combinations; It either screams out loud or stays painfully silent but I promise — it beats words. It beats worlds.

I always felt that the great high privilege, relief and comfort of friendship, was that one had to explain nothing