“The pain of hunger beneath everything. At the end of all love-making, the dreamless sleep after the orgasm, which is like death.” — Christopher Isherwood Copy Share Image
“Staring and staring into the mirror, it sees many faces within its face - the face of the child, the boy, the… — Christopher Isherwood Copy Share Image
Staring and staring into the mirror, it sees many faces within its face - the face of the child, the boy, the… — Christopher Isherwood Copy Share Image
“From his angle, the curtain seems to form itself into a shrouded, wavering figure, indescribably terrifying in its very indistinctness. Something waiting, hovering on… — Christopher Isherwood Copy Share Image
“If you really have talent, you know, you'll go on writing - whatever people say to you.” — Christopher Isherwood Copy Share Image
But seriously, I believe I'm a sort of Ideal Woman, if you know what I mean. I'm the sort of woman who can take… — Christopher Isherwood Copy Share Image
If it’s going to be a world with no time for sentiment, it’s not a world that I want to live in. — Christopher Isherwood Copy Share Image
“By the time it has gotten dressed, it has become he; has become already more or less George — though still not the whole… — Christopher Isherwood Copy Share Image
“George feels that, even if all this double talk hasn't brought them any closer to understanding each other, the not-understanding, the readiness to remain… — Christopher Isherwood Copy Share Image
“Now, for example, people with freckles aren’t thought of as a minority by the nonfreckled. They aren’t a minority in the sense we’re talking… — Christopher Isherwood Copy Share Image
“Even when they are geniuses in spite of it, their masterpieces are invariably warped.” — Christopher Isherwood Copy Share Image
“Here, in their midst, George feels a sort of vertigo. Oh God, what will become of them all? What chance have they? Ought I… — Christopher Isherwood Copy Share Image
We must remember that nothing in this world really belongs to us. At best, we are merely borrowers. — Christopher Isherwood Copy Share Image
In the eternal lazy morning of the Pacific, days slip away into months, months into years; the seasons are reduced to the faintest nuance… — Christopher Isherwood Copy Share Image
