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I would not be young again, if you offered me the world. But then I'm prejudiced.' 'You talk,' I said, 'as if you were ninety-nine.' 'For a woman I very nearly am,' she said. 'I'm thirty five.
Daphne du Maurier
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Daphne du Maurier
Age: 81 †
Born: 1907
Born: May 13
Died: 1989
Died: April 19
Author
Biographer
Novelist
Playwright
Science Fiction Writer
Screenwriter
Writer
London
England
Dame Daphne du Maurier
Nine
Five
Talk
Woman
Prejudiced
Young
Ninety
Would
Offered
World
Nearly
Thirty
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Women want love to be a novel, men a short story.
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He stole horses' you'll say to yourself, 'and he didn't care for women and but for my pride I'd have been with him now.
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But luxury has never appealed to me, I like simple things, books, being alone, or with somebody who understands.
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Life was a series of greetings and farewells, one was always saying good-bye to something, to someone.
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He was like someone sleeping who woke suddenly and found the world...all the beauty of it, and the sadness too. The hunger and the thirst. Everything he had never thought about or known was there before him, and magnified into one person who by chance, or fate--call it what you will--happened to be me.
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Every moment was a precious thing, having in it the essence of finality.
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The urge to climb will never be explained. In olden days, perhaps it was a wish to reach the stars. Today, anyone so minded can buy a seat on a plane and feel himself master of the skies. Even so, he will not have rock under his feet, or air upon his face nor will he know the silence that comes only on the hills.
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You had to endure something yourself before it touched you.
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People who travel are always fugitives.
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... and through it all and afterwards they would be together, making their own world where nothing mattered but the things they could give to one another, the loveliness, the silence, and the peace.
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When she smiled it was as though she embraced the world.
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Because I want to because I must because now and forever more this is where I belong to be.
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She knew that this was happiness, this was living as she had always wished to live.
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Here was the freedom I desired, long sought-for, not yet known Freedom to write, to walk, to wander, freedom to climb hills, to pull a boat, to be alone.
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Writers should be read, but neither seen nor heard.
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Looking from the window at the fantastic light and colour of my glittering fairy-world of fact that holds no tenderness, no quietude, I long suddenly for peace, for understanding.
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here was a silence between them for a moment, and she wondered if all women, when in love, were torn between two impulses, a longing to throw modesty and reserve to the winds and confess everything, and an equal determination to conceal the love forever, to be cool, aloof, utterly detached, to die rather than admit a thing so personal, so intimate.
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When the leaves rustle, they sound very much like the stealthy movement of a woman in evening dress, and when they shiver suddenly, and fall, and scatter away along the ground, they might be the patter of a woman’s hurrying footsteps, and the mark in the gravel the imprint of a high-heeled shoe.
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Look on each day that comes as a challenge, as a test of courage. The pain will come in waves, some days worse than others, for no apparent reason. Accept the pain. Little by little, you will find new strength, new vision, born of the very pain and loneliness which seem, at first, impossible to master.
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Living as we do in an age of noise and bluster, success is now measured accordingly. We must all be seen, and heard, and on the air.
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