Virginia Woolf, I Enjoyed Talking

The Ghost Of The Heart Of Manred Cain And The More Murderous Brain Of Man, Still Redder Nero That Conceived The Death Of His Mother Earth, And Tore Her Womb, To Know The Place Where He Was Conceived.

The Busy Chatter Of The Heat Shrilled Like A Parakeet; And Shuddering At The Noonday Light The Dust Lay Dead And White As Powder On A Mummy's Face, Or Fawned With Simian Grace Round Booths With Many A Hard Bright Toy And Wooden Brittle Joy: The Cap And Bells Of Time The Clown That, Jangling, Whistled Down Young Cherubs Hidden In The Guise Of Every Bird That Flies; And Star-bright Masks For Youth To Wear, Lest Any Dream That Fare Bright Pilgrim Past Our Ken, Should See Hints Of Reality.

The Trouble About Most Englishwomen Is That They Will Dress As If They Had Been A Mouse In A Previous Incarnation, Or Hope To Be One In The Next.

... All Ugliness Passes, And Beauty Endures, Excepting Of The Skin.

If One Is A Greyhound, Why Try To Look Like A Pekingese?