Quote

New York rose out of the water like a great wave that found it impossible to return again and so remained there in horror, peering out of the million windows man had caged it with.

Djuna Barnes

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Djuna Barnes
Age: 90 †
Born: 1892
Born: June 12
Died: 1982
Died: June 18
Journalist
Novelist
Playwright
Poet
Writer
Cornwall on Hudson
New York
Lydia Steptoe
Found
Rose
Great
Million
Men
Window
Peering
Like
York
Caged
Return
Remained
Millions
Windows
Impossible
Wave
Water
Horror

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Suffering for love is how I have learned practically everything I know, love of grandmother up and on.
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Yes, we who are full to the gorge with misery should look well around, doubting everything seen, done, spoken, precisely because we have a word for it, and not its alchemy
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Madness to us means reversion to such people as Una and Lena it meant progression. Now their uncle had entered into a land beyond them, the land of fancy. For fifty years he had been as they were, silent, hard-working, unimaginative. Then all of a sudden, like a scholar passing his degree, he had gone up into another form.
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Life is painful, nasty and short.. in my case it has only been painful and nasty.
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And must I, perchance, like careful writers, guard myself against the conclusions of my readers?
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One's life is peculiar to one's own when one has invented it.
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We are adhering to life now with our last muscle - the heart.
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Certainty always produces questions, uncertainty statements. It is a balancing law of nature.
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Our bones ache only while the flesh is on them.
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Only the impossible lasts forever.
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The unendurable is the beginning of the curve of joy.
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Time is a great conference planning our end, and youth is only the past putting a leg forward.
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I couldn't ever boil potatoes over the heat of your affection. Your love would never bridge a gap it wouldn't even fill up the hole that the mice came through.
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God, children know something they can't tell they like Red Riding Hood and the wolf in bed!
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I have been loved,' she said, 'by something strange, and it has forgotten me.
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There's something evil in me that loves evil and degradation--purity's black backside! That loves honesty with a horrid love or why have I always gone seeking it at the liar's door?
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Sleep demands of us a guilty immunity.
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Well, isn't Bohemia a place where everyone is as good as everyone else - and must not a waiter be a little less than a waiter to be a good Bohemian?
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Of course I think of the past and of Paris, what else is there to remember?
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The heart of the jealous knows the best and most satisfying love, that of the other's bed, where the rival perfects the lover's imperfections.
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