Quotes About Quote

Unhappiness is everywhere; just beyond the door; or stupidity, which is worse

Me produce un gran placer estar sola […] elimino el dolor que me produce la gente. Quizás sea el placer más fuerte que conozco.

Would that we might spare the reader what is to come and say to him in so many words, Orlando died and was buried. But here, alas, Truth, Candour, and Honesty, the austere Gods, who keep watch and ward by the inkpot of the biographer, cry No!

By conviction an atheist perhaps, he is taken by surprise with moments of extraordinary exaltation. Nothing

Qué derecho tenían los Bradshaw a hablar de muerte en su fiesta? Se había matado, sí, pero ¿cómo? El cuerpo de Clarissa siempre lo revivía, en el primer instante, bruscamente, cuando le contaban un accidente; se le inflamaba el vestido, le ardía el cuerpo.

there is no end to the pathetic devices of the human imagination - over other people

Or is anger, I wondered, somehow, the familiar, the attendant sprite of power?

There is a certain 'beauty' in illness - one is alone - one reads - one thinks - one sees only the people one like seeing. (27 (?)/5/1928) - From a Letter to Duncan Grant)

The night is not a tumultuous black ocean in which you sink or sail as a star

And Oliver, rising, could hear the rustle of the dress of the Duchess as she came down the passage.

Me atrevería a decir que Anon, que escribió tantos poemas sin firmarlos, era una mujer.

The great revelation had never come. Instead there were daily little miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark, here was one.

Imagine me; I shall not exist if you do not imagine me; try to discern the doe in me, trembling in the forest of my own iniquity; let's even smile a little. After all, there is no harm in smiling.

Loneliness as a situation can be corrected, but as a state of mind it is an incurable illness.

Nymphets do not occur in polar regions.

I would like to spare the time and effort of hack reviewers and, generally, persons who move their lips when reading.

And the most poignant thing was not Lolita's absence from my side, but the absence of her voice from the chorus.

I see nothing for the treatment of my misery but the melancholy and very local palliative of articulate art.

I think she always nursed a small mad hope.

All my best words are deserters and do not answer the trumpet call, and the remainder are cripples.

I always call him Lewis Carroll Carroll, because he was the first Humbert Humbert.

Even while writing his book, he had become painfully aware how little he knew his own planet while attempting to piece together another one from jagged bits filched from deranged brains.

Actually he was a pessimist, and, like all pessimists, a ridiculously unobservant man.

two lumpy old ladies in semitransparent raincoats, like potatoes in cellophane…