“To put it in a nutshell, he was afflicted with a love of literature. It was the fatal nature of this disease to substitute a phantom for reality.”
― Orlando
― Orlando
“It was odd, she thought, how if one was alone, one leant to inanimate things; trees, streams, flowers; felt they expressed one; felt they became one; felt they knew one, in a sense were one; felt an irrational tenderness thus (she looked at that long steady light) as for oneself.”
― To the Lighthouse
― To the Lighthouse
“Nothing thicker than a knife's blade separates happiness from melancholy.”
― Orlando
― Orlando
“I'm sick to death of this particular self. I want another.”
― Orlando
― Orlando
“No, she thought, one could say nothing to nobody. The urgency of the moment always missed its mark. Words fluttered sideways and struck the object inches too low.”
― To the Lighthouse
― To the Lighthouse
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