I'm afraid I'm being an awful nuisance.

One's own surroundings means so much to one, when one is feeling miserable.

I am an unpopular electric eel in a pool of catfish.

I am not eccentric. It's just that I am more alive than most people. I am an unpopular electric eel set in a pond of goldfish.

Rhythm is one of the principal translators between dream and reality.

I am one of those unhappy persons who inspire bores to the greatest flights of art.

Rhythm is one of the principal translators between dream and reality. Rhythm might be described as, to the world of sound, what light is to the world of sight. It shapes and gives new meaning. Rhythm was described by Schopenhauer as melody deprived of its pitch.

Said the Sun to the Moon-'When you are but a lonely white crone,
And I, a dead King in my golden armour somewhere in a dark wood,
Remember only this of our hopeless love
That never till Time is done
Will the fire of the heart and the fire of the mind be one.

I am not eccentric. It's just that I am more alive than most people. I am an unpopular electric eel set in a pond of catfish.

By the time I was eleven years old, I had been taught that nature, far from abhorring a Vacuum, positively adores it.

I have taken this step because I want the discipline, the fire and the authority of the Church. I am hopelessly unworthy of it, but I hope to become worthy.

People are usually made Dames for virtues I do not possess.

Vulgarity is, in reality, nothing but a modern, chic, pert descendant of the goddess Dullness.

The trouble with most Englishwomen is that they will dress as if they had been a mouse in a previous incarnation they do not want to attract attention.

But I saw the little-Ant men as they ran

Carrying the world's weight of the world's filth

And the filth in the heart of Man --

Compressed till those lusts and greeds had a greater heat

than that of the Sun.

Hot water is my native element. I was in it as a baby, and I have never seemed to get out of it ever since.

Tall windows show Infinity; And, hard reality, The candles weep and pry and dance Like lives mocked at by Chance. The rooms are vast as Sleep within; When once I ventured in, Chill Silence, like a surging sea, Slowly enveloped me.

Virginia Woolf's writing is no more than glamorous knitting. I believe she must have a pattern somewhere.

Our hearts seemed safe in our breasts and sang to the Light The marrow in the bone We dreamed was safe... the blood in the veins, the sap in the tree Were springs of Deity.

My poems are hymns of praise to the glory of life.