Women want love to be a novel. Men, a short story.
Daphne du MaurierTag: writing
They are not brave, the days when we are twenty-one. They are full of little cowardices, little fears without foundation, and one is so easily bruised, so swiftly wounded, one falls to the first barbed word. To-day, wrapped in the complacent armour of approaching middle age, the infinitesimal pricks of day by day brush one but lightly and are soon forgotten, but then—how a careless word would linger, becoming a fiery stigma, and how a look, a glance over a shoulder, branded themselves as things eternal.
Daphne du MaurierThis house sheltered us, we spoke, we loved within those walls. That was yesterday. To-day we pass on, we see it no more, and we are different, changed in some infinitesimal way. We can never be quite the same again.
Daphne du MaurierAnd he went on eating his marmalade as though everything were natural.
Daphne du MaurierAnd oh, heaven - the crowded playhouse, the stench of perfume upon heated bodies, the silly laughter and the clatter, the party in the Royal box - the King himself present - the impatient crowd in the cheap seats stamping and shouting for the play to begin while they threw orange peel on to the stage.
Daphne du MaurierTag: waiting orange-peel royal-box
Men are simpler than you imagine my sweet child. But what goes on in the twisted, tortuous minds of women would baffle anyone.
Daphne du MaurierI had build up false pictures in my mind and sat before them. I had never had the courage to demand the truth.
Daphne du MaurierIt wouldn't make for sanity would it, living with the devil.
Daphne du MaurierShe knew that this was happiness, this was living as she had always wished to live.
Daphne du MaurierAll whispers and echoes from a past that is gone teem into the sleeper's brain, and he is with them, and part of them.
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