fashion seems to exist for an abstract person who is not you or me. — Elizabeth Bowen Copy Share Image
Habit is not mere subjugation, it is a tender tie; when one remembers habit it seems to have been happiness. — Elizabeth Bowen Copy Share Image
Ghosts seem harder to please than we are; it is as though they haunted for haunting’s sake -- much as we relive,… — Elizabeth Bowen Copy Share Image
somehow at parties at which one stays standing up one seems to require to be more concentratedly intelligent than one does at… — Elizabeth Bowen Copy Share Image
When one is a child, the disposition of objects, tables and chairs and doors, seems part of the natural order: a house-move… — Elizabeth Bowen Copy Share Image
Grown-up people seem to be busy by clockwork... They run their unswerving course from object to object, directed by some mysterious inner… — Elizabeth Bowen Copy Share Image
I am fully intelligent only when I write. I have a certain amount of small-change intelligence, which I carry round with me… — Elizabeth Bowen Copy Share Image
The writer, unlike his non-writing adult friend, has no predisposed outlook; he seldom observes deliberately. He sees what he didnot intend to… — Elizabeth Bowen Copy Share Image
Ghosts, we hope, may be always with us - that is, never too far out of the reach of fancy. On the… — Elizabeth Bowen Copy Share Image
Temperamentally, the writer exists on happenings, on contacts, conflicts, action and reaction, speed, pressure, tension. Were he acontemplative purely, he would not write. — Elizabeth Bowen Copy Share Image
“Are you really an orphan? Yes, I am, said Portia a shade shortly. Are you? No, not at present, but I suppose it's a… — Elizabeth Bowen Copy Share Image
It is not our exalted feelings, it is our sentiments that build the necessary home. — Elizabeth Bowen Copy Share Image
Every love has a poetic relevance of its own; each love brings to light only what to it is relevant. Outside lies the junk-yard… — Elizabeth Bowen Copy Share Image
without fiction, either life would be insufficient or the winds from the north would blow too cold. — Elizabeth Bowen Copy Share Image
One's sentiments -- call them that -- one's fidelities are so instinctive that one hardly knows they exist: only when they are betrayed or,… — Elizabeth Bowen Copy Share Image
Only in a house where one has learnt to be lonely does one have this solicitude for things. One's relation to them, the daily… — Elizabeth Bowen Copy Share Image
To walk into history is to be free at once, to be at large among people. — Elizabeth Bowen Copy Share Image
The wish to lead out one's lover must be a tribal feeling; the wish to be seen as loved is part of one's self-respect. — Elizabeth Bowen Copy Share Image
“First love, with its frantic haughty imagination, swings its object clear of the everyday, over the rut of living, making him all looks, silences,… — Elizabeth Bowen Copy Share Image
