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But love – don’t we all talk a great deal of nonsense about it? What does one mean? ... It’s only a story one makes up in one’s mind about another per...more

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Dearest, I feel certain that I am going mad again. I feel we can't go through another of those terrible times. And I shan't recover this time. I begin...more

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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 ...more

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He called her a melon, a pineapple, an olive tree, an emerald, and a fox in the snow all in the space of three seconds; he did not know whether he had...more

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But love...it's only an illusion. A story one makes up in one's mind about another person. And one knows all the time it isn't true. Of course one kno...more

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The melancholy river bears us on. When the moon comes through the trailing willow boughs, I see your face, I hear your voice and the bird singing as w...more

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He felt himself now, as he had often fancied other people, adrift on the stream, and far removed from control of it, a man with no grasp upon circumst...more

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One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well.

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If one is to deal with people on a large scale and say what one thinks, how can one avoid melancholy? I don’t admit to being hopeless, though: only th...more

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He is precisely the young man to fall headlong in love and repent it for the rest of his life.

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Melancholy were the sounds on a winter's night.

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Love and religion! thought Clarissa, going back into the drawing room, tingling all over. How detestable, how detestable they are!

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Milly Brush once might almost have fallen in love with these silences.

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To love makes one solitary.

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This was a favourite dress, one of Sally Parker's, the last almost she ever made, alas, for Sally had now retired, living at Ealing, and if ever I hav...more