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One need not write in a diary what one is to remember for ever.
Sylvia Townsend Warner
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Sylvia Townsend Warner
Age: 84 †
Born: 1893
Born: December 6
Died: 1978
Died: May 1
Linguist
Musicologist
Novelist
Poet
Translator
Writer
Harrow
Silvia Warner
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Writing
Diary
Diaries
Write
Remember
Ever
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More quotes by Sylvia Townsend Warner
The Church has lost a great religious poet in me but I have lost an infinity of fun in the church, so the loss is even.
Sylvia Townsend Warner
Love amazes, but it does not surprise.
Sylvia Townsend Warner
The fatal flaw of gravity when you are down, everything falls down on you.
Sylvia Townsend Warner
To think of losing is to lose already.
Sylvia Townsend Warner
Only two things are real to me: my love and my death. In between them, I merely exist as a scatter of senses.
Sylvia Townsend Warner
I realize that it is as one ages and loses one's natural force that one is at the mercy of heredity. The young are themselves: the aging, their parents' children.
Sylvia Townsend Warner
Anticipation of pleasure is a pleasure in itself.
Sylvia Townsend Warner
Young people are careless of their virginity one day they may have it and the next not.
Sylvia Townsend Warner
Reason is a poor hand at prophecies.
Sylvia Townsend Warner
when the German propaganda tries to be winsome it is like a clown with homicidal mania - ludicrous and terrifying both at once.
Sylvia Townsend Warner
For the last six weeks I have found myself pestered by some characters in search of an author.
Sylvia Townsend Warner
The baby romped on my lap like a short stout salmon.
Sylvia Townsend Warner
Love is the only real patriation, and without one's dear one sits in a dreary and boring exile.
Sylvia Townsend Warner
noise is a pollution.
Sylvia Townsend Warner
Wealth, if not a mere flash in the pan, compels the wealthy to become wealthier.
Sylvia Townsend Warner
Oh, I am all for singing. If I had had children I should have hounded them into choirs & choral societies, and if they weren't good enough for that, I would have sent them out, to sing in the streets.
Sylvia Townsend Warner
There are not enough poems in praise of bed.
Sylvia Townsend Warner
When other helpers fail and comforts flee, when the senses decay and the mind moves in a narrower and narrower circle, when the grasshopper is a burden and the postman brings no letters, and even the Royal Family is no longer quite what it was, an obituary column stands fast.
Sylvia Townsend Warner
All encounters with children are touched with social embarrassment.
Sylvia Townsend Warner
My grandmother was unsurpassable at sitting. She would sit on tombstones, glaciers, small hard benches with ants crawling over them, fragments of public monuments, other people's wheelbarrows, and when one returned one could be sure of finding her there, conversing affably with the owner of the wheelbarrow.
Sylvia Townsend Warner
