And no bathroom on earth will make up for marrying a bearded man you hate.

Even a broken heart doesn't warrant a waste of good paper.

I wasn't merely remembering, it seemed to be trapped inside my eyelids.

People's clothes ought to be buried with them...They oughtn't to be left behind to be despised.

The key to all knowledge comes in words of just one syllable, apparently.... There's only the last page left to write on. I'll fill it with words of just one syllable. I love. I have loved. I will love.

I shouldn't think even millionaires could eat anything nicer than new bread and real butter and honey for tea.

Certain unique books seem to be without forerunners or successors as far as their authors are concerned. Even though they may profoundly influence the work of other writers, for their creator they're complete, not leading anywhere.

So many of the loveliest things in England are melancholy.

Perhaps if I make myself write I shall find out what is wrong with me.

I glanced through another page in case I had missed something, and came to the description of Simon's face as he lay on the grass with his eyes closed. It gave me a stab in which happiness and misery were somehow a part of each other.

It is the still, yellow kind of afternoon when one is apt to get stuck in a dream if one sits very quiet.

People do look different with their eyes closed, their features seem so much more sculptured.

I really am just as discontented, but I don't seem to notice it so much.

It is odd how different a house feels when one is alone in it.

I decided that it was like the difference between the beautiful old Godsend graves and the new ones open to receive coffins (which I never can bear to look at); that time takes the ugliness and horror out of death and turns it into beauty.

But her voice sounded wistful. It is one of her theories that a woman must never be jealous, never try to hold man against his will; but I could tell that she hadn't enjoyed seeing someone else bring father to life.

No, that was my privilege.

It is part of a follow-my-leader game of second-best we have all been playing . . . it isn't a very good game; the people you play it with are apt to get hurt.

I like seeing people when they can't see me.

Rose doesn't like the flat country, but I always did – flat country seems to give the sky such a chance.

What is this insurmountable barrier round him? What's it made of? Where did it come from?

I suppose the best kind of spring morning is the best weather God has to offer. It certainly helps one to believe in Him.

I feel quite unreasonably happy this minute, watching them both; knowing I can go and join them in the warmth, yet staying here in the cold.

The family, that dear octopus from whose tentacles we never quite escape, nor in our innermost hearts never quite wish to.

Everything in the least connected with him has value for me; if someone even mentions his name it is like a little present to me--and I long to mention it myself, I start subjects leading up to it, and then feel myself going red. I keep swearing to myself not to speak of him again- and then an opportunity occurs and I jump at it.

She will want things to stay just as they are. She will never have the fun of hoping something wonderful and exiting may be just around the corner.

I write this sitting in the kitchen sink.

The thought was horrible, yet fascinating.

The vague expression was gone from his eyes - I had a feeling it was gone forever.

If you love people, you take them on trust.

Oh, I always employ shock tactics with men of genius," said Mrs. Cotton. "And one has to employ them in public or the men of genius bolt.

How can a young man like to wear a beard?

It seemed an awful waste that we weren't in love with each other.

If someone even mentions his name it is like a little present to me - and I long to mention it myself. I start subjects leading up to it, and then I feel myself going red. I keep swearing to myself not to speak to him again - and then an opportunity occurs and I jump at it!

Sacrifice is the secret — you have to sacrifice things for art and it's the same with religion; and then the sacrifice turns out to be a gain. Then I got confused and I couldn't hold on to what I meant — until Miss Blossom remarked: Nonsense, duckie — it's perfectly simple. You lose yourself in something beyond yourself and it's a lovely rest.

In addition, I think religion has a chance of a look-in whenever the mind craves solace in music or poetry-- in any form of art at all. Personally, I think it is an art, the greatest one; an extension of the communication all the other arts attempt.

I could look at stationers' shops forever and ever.

Noble deeds and hot baths are the best cures for depression.

This desire for solitude often overcomes her at house-cleaning times.

I get the feeling I do on finishing a novel with a brick-wall happy ending - I mean the kind of ending when you never think any more about the characters.

Topaz is beautiful - largely because of the strangeness of her face.

It's odd how different a house feels when one is alone in it. It makes it easier to think rather private thoughts...

I go backwards and forwards, recapturing the past, wondering about the future—and, most unreasonably, I find myself longing for the past more than for the future.

Just to be in love seemed the most blissful luxury I had ever known. The thought came to me that perhaps it is the loving that counts, not the being loved in return—that perhaps true loving can never know anything but happiness. For a moment I felt that I had discovered a great truth.

As she only cries about once a year I really ought to have gone over and comforted her, but I wanted to set it all down here. I begin to see that writers are liable to become callous.

There used to be two of us always on the look-out for life, talking to Miss Blossom at night, wondering, hoping; two Bronte-Jane Austen girls, poor but spirited, two Girls of Godsend Castle.

And suddenly all the puppies were her puppies; she was their mother—just as Pongo had felt he was their father.

I was wandering around as usual, in my unpleasantly populated sub-conscious...

There is a connection between Dal mations and gipsies. Many people believe that it was the gipsies who first brought Dalmatians to England, long, long ago. And nothing like as long ago as that, there were gipsies who travelled round England with Dalmatians trained to do tricks. And these performing dogs earned money for the gipsies.