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Ach, Tchekov! Why are you dead? Why can’t I talk to you in a big darkish room at late evening—where the light is green from the waving trees outside? I’d like to write a series of Heavens: that would be one.

Katherine Mansfield

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Katherine Mansfield
Age: 34 †
Born: 1888
Born: October 14
Died: 1923
Died: January 9
Diarist
Poet
Writer
Wellington
New Zealand
Katherine Mansfield Beauchamp Murry
Kathleen Murry
Katherine Beauchamp Mansfield
Kathleen Mansfield Murry
Like
Tree
Evening
Talk
Series
Heaven
Green
Bigs
Outside
Write
Late
Light
Room
Waving
Writing
Rooms
Heavens
Would
Dead
Trees

More quotes by Katherine Mansfield

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My love for you tonight is so deep and tender that it seems to be outside myself as well.
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Risk! Risk anything! Care no more for the opinions of others, for those voices. Do the hardest thing on earth for you. Act for yourself. Face the truth.
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I love the night. I love to feel the tide of darkness rising, slowly and slowly washing, turning over and over, lifting, floating, all that lies strewn upon the dark beach, all that lies hid in rocky hollows.
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Wind moving through grass so that the grass quivers. This moves me with an emotion I don't even understand.
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I'm a writer first and a woman after.
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You might drop your heart into me and you'd never hear it touch bottom.
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Perhaps it does not matter so very much what it is one loves in this world. But love something one must.
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I am a recluse at present & do nothing but write & read & read & write
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Better to write twaddle, anything, than nothing at all.
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Regret is an appalling waste of time.
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Do you remember your childhood? I am always coming across these marvelous accounts by writers who declare that they remember 'everything.' I certainly don't. The dark stretches, the blanks, are much bigger than the bright glimpses. I seem to have spent most of my time like a plant in a cupboard.
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... I'd always rather be with people who loved me too little rather than with people who loved me too much.
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There are in life as many aspects as attitudes towards it, and aspects change with attitudes.
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Oh, how quickly things changed! Why didn't happiness last for ever? For ever wasn't a bit too long.
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Looking back, I imagine I was always writing. Twaddle it was too. But better far write twaddle or anything, anything, than nothing at all.
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To be alive and to be a ‘writer’ is enough.
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if one really does try to find out why it is that people don't leave each other, one discovers a mystery. It is because they can't they are bound. And nobody on earth knows what are the bonds that bind them except those two.
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The ostrich burying its head in the sand does at any rate wish to convey the impression that its head is the most important part of it.
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I saw myself driving through Eternity in a timeless taxi.
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I feel I must live alone, alone, alone - with artists only to touch the door. Every artist cuts off his ear and nails it on the outside of the door for the others to shout into.
Katherine Mansfield