Quotes About Society

People were beginning to compare her to poplar trees, early dawn, hyacinths, fawns, running water, and garden lilies, and it made her life a burden to her, for she so much preferred being left alone to do what she liked in the country, but they would compare her to lilies, and she had to go to parties, and London was so dreary compared with being alone in the country with her father and the dogs.

To be them would be marvelous, but she was condemned to be herself and could only in this silent enthusiastic way, sitting outside in a garden, applaud the society of humanity from which she was excluded.

Mr. Denham cursed himself very sharply for having exchanged the freedom of the street for this sophisticated drawing-room

Love and religion! thought Clarissa, going back into the drawing-room, tingling all over. How detestable, how detestable they are!

Tenéis alguna noción de cuántos libros se escriben al año sobre las mujeres?

For there's nothing in the world so bad for some women as marriage, he thought; and politics...

Todos acudían a ella, lógicamente, puesto que era mujer; venían a lo largo del día con esto y lo de más allá; uno quería una cosa, otro, otra; a menudo le parecía no ser más que una esponja empapada al máximo en emociones humanas.

insan doÄŸas? gereÄŸi, t?k nefesli, haz?r kravatl? ve iki haftad?r sakal t?ra?? olmayan küçük bir adamdan aÅŸa?? olduÄŸunun söylenmesinden hoÅŸlanm?yor.

the Lord who had come to renew society, who lay like a coverlet, a snow blanket smitten only by the sun, for ever unwasted, suffering for ever, the scapegoat, the eternal sufferer...

Women have served all these centuries as looking-glasses possessing the magic and delicious power of reflecting the figure of man at twice its natural size. Without that power probably the earth would still be swamp and jungle.

But the doctors were hardly wiser then than they are now, and after prescribing rest and exercise, starvation and nourishment, society and solitude, that he should lie in bed all day and ride forty miles between lunch and dinner, together with the usual sedatives and irritants, diversified, as the fancy took them, with possets of newt's slobber on rising, and draughts of peacock's gall on going to bed, they left him to himself, and gave it as their opinion that he had been asleep for a week.

But often now this body she wore (she stopped to look at a Dutch picture), this body, with all its capacities, seemed nothing—nothing at all. She had the oddest sense of being herself invisible; unseen; unknown; there being no more marrying, no more having of children now, but only this astonishing and rather solemn progress with the rest of them, up Bond Street, this being Mrs. Dalloway; not even Clarissa any more; this being Mrs. Richard Dalloway.

we may prate of democracy, but actually, a poor child in England has little more hope than had the son of an Athenian slave to be emancipated into that intellectual freedom of which great writings are born.

And again I am reminded by dipping into newspapers and novels and biographies that when a woman speaks to women she should have something very unpleasant up her sleeve. Women are hard on women. Women dislike women.

No age can ever have been as stridently sex-conscious as our own; those innumerable books by men about women in the British Museum are a proof of it. The Suffrage campaign was no doubt to blame. It must have roused in men an extraordinary desire for self-assertion; it must have made them lay an emphasis upon their own sex and its characteristics which they would not have troubled to think about had they not been challenged

Wharton thought no one could have freedom, but James knew no one wanted freedom.

A work of art has no importance whatever to society. It is only important to the individual.

I am probably responsible for the odd fact that people don't seem to name their daughters Lolita any more. I have heard of young female poodles being given that name since 1956, but of no human beings.

Nowadays you have to be a scientist if you want to be a killer.

In an Anglo-Saxon thriller, the villain is generally punished, and the strong silent man generally wins the weak babbling girl, but there is no governmental law in Western countries to ban a story that does not comply with a fond tradition, so that we always hope that the wicked but romantic fellow will escape scot-free and the good but dull chap will be finally snubbed by the moody heroine.

He started as a maker of Cartesian devils—imps of bottle glass bobbing up and down in methylate-filled tubes hawked during Catkin Week on the boulevards. He

Era a todas luces una de esas mujeres cuyas pulidas palabras pueden reflejar un club del libro, o un club de bridge, o cualquier otro aburrido convencionalismo, pero nunca su alma; mujeres carentes por completo de imaginación; mujeres absolutamente indiferentes, en el fondo, a cualquiera de la docena de temas posibles de conversación en una sala de estar

repeat however for the benefit of those who like books to provide them with "real people" and "real crime" and a "message" (that horror of horrors borrowed from the jargon of quack reformers) that Dead Souls will get them nowhere.

Nowadays you have to be a scientist if you want to be a killer. No, no, I was neither