I cannot love people in the country, I discover, because there is always this danger that they may be acquaintances, with all the perils and choleras of acquaintance implicit in them; but in London they seem as charming as rabbits. — Sylvia Townsend Warner Copy Share Image
One reason why my memory decays is that I have three cats, all so loving and insistent that they play cat's-cradle with every train… — Sylvia Townsend Warner Copy Share
I feel domesticity just slipping off me. It is a choice. Either one can let it go or one can intensify it. The people… — Sylvia Townsend Warner Copy Share
[On an anarchist acquaintance:] Everything in appearance the most alarmist aunt could wish. — Sylvia Townsend Warner Copy Share
Spring is strictly sentimental, self-regarding; but I burn more careless in the autumn bonfire. — Sylvia Townsend Warner Copy Share
“It is,” answered Laura with almost violent agreement. “If you are a were-wolf, and very likely you may be, for lots of people are… — Sylvia Townsend Warner Copy Share
I have an idea that conscience impedes quite as many merits as faults, is a sort of alloy, a nickel which may prevent silver… — Sylvia Townsend Warner Copy Share
There is a period in one's life - perhaps not longer than six months - when one lives in two worlds at once ...… — Sylvia Townsend Warner Copy Share
Love is the only real patriation, and without one's dear one sits in a dreary and boring exile. — Sylvia Townsend Warner Copy Share
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 Copy Share
It is best as one grows older to strip oneself of possessions, to shed oneself downward like a tree, to be almost wholly earth… — Sylvia Townsend Warner Copy Share
Elizabeth ... had the prerogative of the rich that she could be generous with large sums and niggardly over small ones. — Sylvia Townsend Warner Copy Share
Total grief is like a minefield. No knowing when one will touch the tripwire. — Sylvia Townsend Warner Copy Share
How dreadful it is that because of our wills we can never love anything without messing it around! We couldn’t even love a tree,… — Sylvia Townsend Warner Copy Share
