The World Motivation
Yes yes yes I do like you. I am afraid to write the stronger word.
“Septimus has been working too hard" - that was all she could say to her own mother. To love makes one solitary, she thought.”
“A woman knows very well that, though a wit sends her his poems, praises her judgment, solicits her criticism, and drinks her tea, this by no means signifies that he respects her opinions, admires her understanding, or will refuse, though the rapier is denied him, to run through the body with his pen.”
“Better was it to go unknown and leave behind you an arch, then to burn like a meteor and leave no dust.”
“Was not writing poetry a secret transaction, a voice answering a voice?”
“Again, somehow, one saw life, a pure bead. I lifted the pencil again, useless though I knew it to be. But even as I did so, the unmistakable tokens of death showed themselves. The body relaxed, and instantly grew stiff. The struggle was over. The insignificant little creature now knew death. As I looked at the dead moth, this minute wayside triumph of so great a force over so mean an antagonist filled me with wonder. Just as life had been strange a few minutes before, so death was now as strange.”
“She is the crescendo, the final, astonishing work of God. Woman. In one last flourish creation comes to a finish with Eve. She is the Master's finishing touch.”
“She realised she was whimpering. Sir held her closer, his hard grip reassuring. This wasn't a dream; he really was here.”
“You haunt me. You alone. You're my fire. I'm your air." Nathaniel to Amelia”
“Why is he scared of the dark?”
“Una volta aveva letto un romanzo d'amore che le aveva prestato la sorella. Non aveva capito niente di quelle emozioni e si era annoiata da morire. Era anormale? Il suo corpo e il suo cuore sarebbero stati eternamente sordi a quel genere di richiami?”
“For you, my love, I would endeavor to pluck the stars from the sky, only to shower them at your feet.”
“the battered woman--for she wore a skirt--with her right hand exposed, her left clutching at her side, stood singing of love--love which has lasted a million years, she sang, love which prevails, and millions of years ago, her lover, who had been dead these centuries, had walked, she crooned, with her in May; but in the course of ages, long as summer days, and flaming, she remembered, with nothing but red asters, he had gone; death's enormous sickle had swept those tremendous hills, and when at last she laid her hoary and immensely aged head on the earth, now become a mere cinder of ice, she implored the Gods to lay by her side a bunch of purple heather, there on her high burial place which the last rays of the last sun caressed; for then the pageant of the universe would be over.”