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“Because”—a phrase came to her, and she accepted it—“you’re the sort who can’t know any one intimately.” A horrified look came into his eyes.
“It is true.” “True on the whole,” she corrected, full of some vague shame.
At Colonel Summers with DH on Monday 7/14/25. He acknowledged that "some" of my criticism of him was true. I told him that I knew I should feel bad about all I said, but I didn't. I said the truth: that I felt relieved
He repeated: “‘The sort that can know no one intimately.’
DH. And how lonely that existence must be
She could never marry. In the tumult of her soul, that stood firm. Cecil believed in her; she must some day believe in herself. She must be one of the women whom she had praised so eloquently, who care for liberty and not for men;
"De-centering men"
It did not do to think, nor, for the matter of that, to feel. She gave up trying to understand herself, and joined the vast armies of the benighted, who follow neither the heart nor the brain, and march to their destiny by catch-words. The armies are full of pleasant and pious folk. But they have yielded to the only enemy that matters—the enemy within. They have sinned against passion and truth, and vain will be their strife after virtue. As the years pass, they are censured. Their pleasantry and their piety show cracks, their wit becomes cynicism, their unselfishness hypocrisy; they feel and
...more
Do not reject all of your impulses. Then who are you?
sedulously,
“Isn’t Romance capricious! I never notice it in you young people; you do nothing but play lawn tennis, and say that romance is dead, while the Miss Alans are struggling with all the weapons of propriety against the terrible thing.
“It is always terrible when the promise of months is destroyed in a moment,” enunciated Miss Bartlett.
“I must get away, ever so far. I must know my own mind and where I want to go.”
Why should Lucy want either to marry or to travel when she had such friends at home? “Taste not when the wine-cup glistens, Speak not when the people listens,”
“Stop thine ear against the singer—” “Wait a minute; she is finishing.” “From the red gold keep thy finger; Vacant heart and hand and eye Easy live and quiet die.”
Depressing
“Vacant heart and hand and eye Easy live and quiet die.”
Quinine
She disliked confidences, for they might lead to self-knowledge and to that king of terrors—Light. Ever since that last evening at Florence she had deemed it unwise to reveal her soul.
for one who had deliberately warped the brain. She did not acknowledge that her brain was warped, for the brain itself must assist in that acknowledgment, and she was disordering the very instruments of life.
“I want more independence,” said Lucy lamely; she knew that she wanted something, and independence is a useful cry; we can always say that we have not got it. She tried to remember her emotions in Florence: those had been sincere and passionate, and had suggested beauty rather than short skirts and latch-keys. But independence was certainly her cue.
Despise the house that your father built and the garden that he planted, and our dear view—and then share a flat with another girl.”
“Oh, goodness!” her mother flashed. “How you do remind me of Charlotte Bartlett!” “Charlotte!” flashed Lucy in her turn, pierced at last by a vivid pain.
Please let this be a wake-up call
“Well, I see the likeness. The same eternal worrying, the same taking back of words. You and Charlotte trying to divide two apples among three people last night might be sisters.”
Waste! That word seemed to sum up the whole of life. Wasted plans, wasted money, wasted love, and she had wounded her mother. Was it possible that she had muddled things away? Quite possible. Other people had.
“I taught him,” he quavered, “to trust in love. I said: ‘When love comes, that is reality.’ I said: ‘Passion does not blind. No. Passion is sanity, and the woman you love, she is the only person you will ever really understand.’”
Do you remember in that church, when you pretended to be annoyed with me and weren’t? Do you remember before, when you refused the room with the view? Those were muddles—little, but ominous—and I am fearing that you are in one now.”
Man has to pick up the use of his functions as he goes along—especially the function of Love.”
“You’re shocked, but I mean to shock you. It’s the only hope at times. I can reach you no other way.
It isn’t possible to love and to part. You will wish that it was. You can transmute love, ignore it, muddle it, but you can never pull it out of you. I know by experience that the poets are right: love is eternal.”
When I think what life is, and how seldom love is answered by love—Marry him; it is one of the moments for which the world was made.”
But if we act the truth, the people who really love us are sure to come back to us in the long run.”
He carried her to the window, so that she, too, saw all the view. They sank upon their knees, invisible from the road, they hoped, and began to whisper one another’s names. Ah! it was worth while; it was the great joy that they had expected, and countless little joys of which they had never dreamt.
The view. Diving in was worth the muddle
When I am very happy”—she kissed him—“I remember on how little it all hangs. If Charlotte had only known, she would have stopped me going in, and I should have gone to silly Greece, and become different for ever.”
Butterfly effect. Fate. When you're in love, it's so fun to retrace the steps
“But she did know,” said George; “she did see my father, surely. He said so.”
I think Charlotte was supportive after hearing George's declarations of love
desultory
passion requited, love attained.
