I often have
long conversations all by myself
and I am so clever
that sometimes I don't understand
a single word
of what I am saying.
Send
I often have
long conversations all by myself
and I am so clever
that sometimes I don't understand
a single word
of what I am saying.
Murder is always a mistake - one should never do anything one cannot talk about after dinner.
As soon as people are old enough to know better, they don't know anything at all.
If a woman can't make her mistakes charming, she is only a female.
Beauty is a form of Genius--is higher, indeed, than Genius, as it needs no explanation.
Imagination is a quality that was given to man to compensate him from whats not. The sense of humor was given to console him from what is.
Veil after veil of thin dusky gauze is lifted, and by degrees the forms and colours of things are restored to them, and we watch the dawn remaking the world in its antique pattern. The wan mirrors get back their mimic life. The flameless tapers stand where we had left them, and beside them lies the half-cut book that we had been studying, or the wired flower that we had worn at the ball, or the letter that we had been afraid to read, or that we had read too often. Nothing seems to us changed. Out of the unreal shadows of the night comes back the real life that we had known. We have to resume it where we had left off, and there steals over us a terrible sense of the necessity for the continuance of energy in the same wearisome round of stereotyped habits, or a wild longing, it may be, that our eyelids might open some morning upon a world that had been refashioned anew in the darkness for our pleasure, a world in which things would have fresh shapes and colours, and be changed, or have other secrets, a world in which the past would have little or no place, or survive, at any rate, in no conscious form of obligation or regret, the remembrance even of joy having its bitterness and the memories of pleasure their pain.
To regret one's own experiences is to arrest one's own development. To deny one's own experiences is to put a lie into the lips of one's life. It is no less than a denial of the soul.
He had uttered a mad wish that he himself might remain young, and the portrait grow old; that his own beauty might be untarnished, and the face on the canvas bear the burden of his passions and his sins; [...] Such things were impossible. It seemed monstrous even to think of them.
He sought to become eyes to the blind, ears to the deaf, and a cry in the lips of those whose lips had been sealed. His wish was that of being the trumpet through which the voiceless multitude could reach the sky.