MihaElla > Recent Status Updates

It was the first time in her life that she had spoken with a woman daring enough to think and act for herself.

The struggle of life has made me selfish; I have neglected my old friends. And yet I am bound to add that some of them have neglected me .

At nine o'clock they took a cup of cocoa and a biscuit, and half an hour later they went to bed. Lamp oil was costly; and indeed they felt glad to say as early as possible that another day had gone by.

‘But there is so little choice for people like myself. Certificates, and even degrees, are asked for on every hand. With nothing but references to past employers, what can one expect? I know it will end in my taking a place without salary.'

'People seem to have still less need of me,’ lamented the companion. 'I wish now that I had gone to Norwich as lady-help.'

Her one intellectual desire was to know as much as possible about ecclesiastical history. Not in a spirit of fanaticism; she was devout, but in moderation, and never spoke bitterly on religious topics. The growth of the Christian Church, old sects and schisms, the Councils, affairs of Papal policy—these things had a very genuine interest for her; circumstances favouring, she might have become an erudite woman;

But the home must be guarded against sordid cares to the last possible moment; nothing upsets me more than the sight of those poor homes where wife and children are obliged to talk from morning to night of how the sorry earnings shall be laid out. No, no; women, old or young, should never have to think about money.

‘I don't think girls ought to be troubled about this kind of thing,' he added apologetically. 'Let men grapple with the world; for, as the old hymn says, "'tis their nature to." I should grieve indeed if I thought my girls would ever have to distress themselves about money matters. But I find I have got into the habit, Alice, of talking to you very much as I should talk with your dear mother if she were with us.

Even in my underground dreams I did not imagine love except as a struggle. I began it always with hatred and ended it with moral subjugation, and afterwards I never knew what to do with the subjugated object. And what is there to wonder at in that, since I had succeeded in so corrupting myself, since I was so out of touch with "real life," as to have actually thought of reproaching her, and putting her

This time she understood it all. I had insulted her finally, but ... there's no need to describe it. She realised that my outburst of passion had been simply revenge, a fresh humiliation, and that to my earlier, almost causeless hatred was added now a PERSONAL HATRED, born of envy.... […] but she certainly did fully understand that I was a despicable man, and what was worse, incapable of loving her.

The poor girl was keeping that student's letter as a precious treasure, and had run to fetch it, her only treasure, because she did not want me to go away without knowing that she, too, was honestly and genuinely loved; that she, too, was addressed respectfully. No doubt that letter was destined to lie in her box and lead to nothing. But none the less, I am certain that she would keep it all her life as a

Every man has reminiscences which he would not tell to everyone,but only to his friends.He has other matters in his mind which he would not reveal even to his friends,but only to himself,& that in secret.But there are other things which a man is afraid to tell even to himself,& every decent man has a number of such things stored away in his mind.The more decent he is,the greater the number of such things in his mind

The long and the short of it is, gentlemen, that it is better to do nothing! Better conscious inertia! And so hurrah for underground! Though I have said that I envy the normal man to the last drop of my bile, yet I should not care to be in his place such as he is now (though I shall not cease envying him). No, no; anyway the underground life is more advantageous. There, at any rate, one can ...

Oh, gentlemen, do you know, perhaps I consider myself an intelligent man, only because all my life I have been able neither to begin nor to finish anything. Granted I am a babbler, a harmless vexatious babbler, like all of us. But what is to be done if the direct and sole vocation of every intelligent man is babble, that is, the intentional pouring of water through a sieve?

Observe yourselves more carefully, gentlemen, then you will understand that it is so. I invented adventures for myself and made up a life, so as at least to live in some way. How many times it has happened to me--well, for instance, to take offence simply on purpose, for nothing; and one knows oneself, of course, that one is offended at nothing;

Lumea trebuie definita ca fiind in mod esential un loc de suferinta. Omul este un animal care sufera, supus nelinistii si durerii si spaimei fara sfarsit, supus legii pe care budistii o numesc dukha: chinul nesfarsit, neostoit al unei fiinte care isi doreste cu ardoare doar lucrurii iluzorii. Exista totusi, in aceasta vale a durerii, numeroase zone…

We’re intermittent beings. We always run towards ordinary and petty goals and we set ourselves to new modest beginnings. Our existence, which gets tired after a short period, is divided into chapters, and the fact that the world looks different the next day is true in general, which at the same time, both aids and annoys us.

Frate! Nu mi-am pierdut curajul si nu m-am prabusit sufleteste. Viata e viata peste tot. Se afla inlauntrul nostru, si nu in exterior. Alaturi de mine vor fi oameni si a fi om intre oameni si a ramane astfel pentru totdeauna, indiferent ce nefericiri se vor abate, a nu-ti pierde curajul si a nu te prabusi, iata in ce consta viata, in ce consta scopul ei. Am inteles acest lucru.

Yes, you will love and rejoice in your Chaucer more and more. Fancy, I've never time, now, to look at him,—obliged to read even my Homer and Shakespeare at a scramble, half missing the sense,—the business of life disturbs one so.

They've been doing photographs of me again, and I'm an orang-outang as usual, and am in despair. I thought with my beard I was beginning to be just the least bit nice to look at. I would give up half my books for a new profile.

I'm reading history of early saints too, for my Amiens book, and feel that I ought to be scratched, or starved, or boiled, or something unpleasant, and I don't know if I'm a saint or a sinner in the least, in mediæval language. How did saints feel themselves, I wonder, about their saintship?

I'm so idle. I look at the hills out of bed, and at the pictures off the sofa. Let us bothbe useless beings; let us be butterflies, grasshoppers, lambs, larks, anything for an easy life. I'm quite horrified to see, now that these two have come back, what a lot of books I've written, and how cruel I've been to myself and everybody else who ever has to read them. I'm too sleepy to finish this note.

It's so very nice that you like stones. If my father, when I was a little boy, would only have given me stones for bread, how I should have thanked him.
What infinite power and treasure you have in being able thus to enjoy the least things, yet having at the same time all the fastidiousness of taste and imagination which lays hold of what is greatest in the least, and best in all things!

For once,I have a birthday stone for you,a little worth your having,& a little gladsome to me in the giving. It is blue like the air that you were born into,& always live in. It is as deep as gentians,& has their gleams of green in it,& it is precious all through within and without, as Susie herself is. Many and many returns of all the birthdays that have gone away,& crowds yet of those that never were here before

I have all your letters,& rejoice in them;though it is a little sadder for you looking at empty Brantwood,than for me to fancy the bright full Thwaite,& then it's a great shame that I've everything to amuse me,& lovely Louvres & shops & cathedrals & coquettes & pictures & plays & prettinesses of every color & quality, & you've only your old, old hills & quiet lake.Very thankful I shall be to get back to them,though.

27th June (1879).
Everybody's gone! and I have all the new potatoes, and all the asparagus, and all the oranges and everything, and my Susie too, all to myself.
I wrote in my diary this morning that really on the whole I never felt better in my life. Mouth, eyes, head, feet, and fingers all fairly in trim; older than they were, yes, but if the head and heart grow wiser, they won't want feet or fingers some day.

Oh dear, I've scribbled this dreadfully. Can you really read my scribble, Susie? Love , you may always read, however scribbled.

11th December (1876).
My mouth's watering so for that Thwaite currant jelly, you can't think. I haven't had the least taste of anything of the sort this three months. These wretches of Venetians live on cigars and garlic, and have no taste in their mouths for anything that God makes nice.

I am very grateful to you for that comparison about my mind being as crisp as a lettuce. I am so thankful you can feel that still. I was beginning to doubt, myself.

Hill, 4th October (1875).
All your letter is delicious, but chiefest the last sentence where you say you like your Chaucer so much.—And you need never fear touching that wound of mine—It is never more—never less—without its pain. I like you to lay your pure—gentle hand on it.

“What does it matter what any of us think? We are but simpletons, the best of us, and I am a very inconsistent and wayward simpleton. I know how to roast eggs, in the ashes, perhaps—but for the next world! Why don't you ask your squirrel what he thinks too? The great point—the one for all of us—is, not to take false words in our mouths, and to crack our nuts innocently through winter and rough weather.