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Wind moving through grass so that the grass quivers. This moves me with an emotion I don't even understand.

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
Even
Quivers
Quiver
Moves
Grass
Wind
Emotion
Moving
Understand

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Whatever happens I have had these blissful, perfect moments and they are worth living for.
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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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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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The pleasure of all reading is doubled when one lives with another who shares the same books.
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I am a recluse at present & do nothing but write & read & read & write
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I adore Life. What do all the fools matter and all the stupidity. They do matter but somehow for me they cannot touch the body of Life. Life is marvellous. I want to be deeply rooted in it - to live - to expand - to breathe in it - to rejoice - to share it. To give and to be asked for Love.
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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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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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Winter is a terrible time for thin people - terrible! Why should it hound them down, fasten on them, worry them so? Why not, for a change, take a nip, take a snap at the fat ones who wouldn't notice? But no! It is sleek, warm, cat-like summer that makes the fat one's life a misery. Winter is all for bones.
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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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I think I hate snow, downright hate it. There is something stupefying in it, a kind of 'You must be worse before you're better,' and down it spins.
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Tidied all my papers. Tore up and ruthlessly destroyed much. This is always a great satisfaction.
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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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How idiotic civilization is! Why be given a body if you have to keep it shut up in a case like a rare, rare fiddle?
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In the woods where snow is thick, bars of sunlight lay like pale fire.
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What happiness it is to listen to rain at night joyful relief, ease a lapping-round and hushing and brooding tenderness, all are mingled together in the sound of the fast-falling rain. God, looking down upon the rainy earth, sees how faint are these lights shining in little windows, - how easily put out.
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To work - to work! It is such infinite delight to know that we still have the best things to do.
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I saw myself driving through Eternity in a timeless taxi.
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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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Better to write twaddle, anything, than nothing at all.
Katherine Mansfield