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The late evening is the time of times. Then with that unearthly beauty before one it is not hard to realise how far one has to go. To write something that will be worthy of that rising moon, that pale light.

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
Times
Realising
Write
Pale
Light
Rising
Hard
Evening
Writing
Worthy
Something
Moon
Time
Late
Unearthly
Beauty
Realise

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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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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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What can you do if you are thirty and, turning the corner of your own street, you are overcome, suddenly, by a feeling of bliss - absolute bliss - as though you'd suddenly swallowed a bright piece of that late afternoon sun and it burned in your bosom, sending out a little shower of sparks into every particle into every finger and toe?
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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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The pleasure of all reading is doubled when one lives with another who shares the same books.
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I am treating you as my friend, asking you to share my present minuses in the hope that I can ask you to share my future plusses.
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That's all life is - something childish and very natural. Isn't it?
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What I feel for you can’t be conveyed in phrasal combinations It either screams out loud or stays painfully silent but I promise — it beats words. It beats worlds. I promise
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we cling to our last pleasures as the tree clings to its last leaves.
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England is merely an island of beef swimming in a warm gulf stream of gravy.
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In fact, isn't it a joy - there is hardly a greater one - to find a new book, a living book, and to know that it will remain with you while life lasts?
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Isn't life,' she stammered, 'isn't life--' But what life was she couldn't explain. No matter. He quite understood. 'Isn't it, darling?' said Laurie.
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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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Better to write twaddle, anything, than nothing at all.
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You are a Queen. Let mine be the joy of giving you your kingdom.
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What is it with me? Am I absolutely nobody, but merely inordinately vain? I do not know…. But I am most fearfully unhappy. That is all. I am so unhappy that I wish I was dead—yet I should be mad to die when I have not yet lived at all.
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No, no the mind I love must still have wild places - a tangled orchard where dark damsons drop in the heavy grass, an overgrown litde wood, the chance of a snake or two (real snakes), a pool that nobody's fathomed the depth of, and paths threaded with those litde flowers planted by the wind.
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In the woods where snow is thick, bars of sunlight lay like pale fire.
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I don't believe other people are ever as foolishly excited as I am while I'm working. How could they be? Writers would have to live in trees.
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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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