Cat

“She was like a fox, or an olive tree; like the waves of the sea when you look down upon them from a height; like an emerald; like the sun on a green hill which is yet clouded--like nothing he had seen or known in England. Ransack the language as he might, words failed him. He wanted another landscape, and another tongue. English was too frank, too candid, too honeyed a speech for Sasha. For in all she said, however open she seemed and voluptuous, there was something hidden; in all she did, however daring, there was something concealed. So the green flame seems hidden in the emerald, or the sun prisoned in a hill. The clearness was only outward; within was a wandering flame. It came; it went; she never shone with the steady beam of an Englishwoman--here, however, remembering the
Lady Margaret and her petticoats, Orlando ran wild in his transports and swept her over the ice, faster, faster, vowing that he would chase the flame, dive for the gem, and so on and so on, the words coming on the pants of his breath with the passion of a poet whose poetry is half pressed out of him by pain.”
― Virginia Woolf, Orlando

“What was joy, anyway. What was the worth of happiness that left behind a crater thrice the size of its impact.”
― Yael van der Wouden, The Safekeep

“And if you really want me, I will come to you, always, anywhere.”
― Vita Sackville-West

“This book is yours, my witch. Read it and find your tormented soul, changed and free.”
― Vita Sackville-West, Challenge