I don't know what imagination is, if not an unpruned, tangled kind of memory. — Christina Stead Copy Share Image
“It is splendid—to be—loved! If we only—can—live up—to the thoughts—of us—by them—that love us!” — Christina Stead Copy Share Image
“I’m afraid to write to your father: he criticizes my spelling,” sneered Henny. “And it appears I know nothing about geography. Hang his stuck-up… — Christina Stead Copy Share Image
“you do not know what she did not only to me but to the little children. She has tortured them, turned them against me,… — Christina Stead Copy Share Image
To me, all the juice of a book is in an unpublished manuscript, and the published book is like a dead tree - just… — Christina Stead Copy Share Image
“Hair under the arms, for example, he said, should never be removed, for nature had put it there, and evidently it had some use.… — Christina Stead Copy Share Image
About myself - no. I'm unimportant, an observer, a wandering animal. — Christina Stead Copy Share Image
“A month before our marriage, I knew it would be a well-nigh hopeless union, yet so great is a young man’s idea of what… — Christina Stead Copy Share Image
“For a moment, after years of scamping, she felt the dread power of wifehood; they were locked in each other’s grasp till the end—the… — Christina Stead Copy Share Image
Socialist writers are made of sterner stuff than those who only let their characters steeplechase through trouble in order to comeout first in the… — Christina Stead Copy Share Image
