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… — 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
