Dodie Smith Quotes

I think it [religion] is an art, the greatest one; an extension of the communion all the other arts attempt.

I should rather like to tear these last pages out of the book. Shall I? No-a journal ought not to cheat.

But it is always dreadful when the pictures in front of one's eyes become meaningless and the real word is there instead and seems meaningless, too.

I wish I could find words
serious, beautiful words
to describe it in the afternoon sunlight; the more I strive for them, the more they utterly elude me.

I could never explain how the image and the reality merge, and how they somehow extend and beautify each other.

I'm convinced England's overflowing with eccentric people, places, happenings. Indeed, you might say eccentricity's normal in England.

Of course, he sees creation as discovery. I mean, everything is already created, by the first cause
call it God if you like; everything is already there to be found.

And what I thought most about was luxury. I had never realised before that it is more than just having things; it makes the very air feel different. And I felt different, breathing the air: relaxed, lazy, still sad but with the edge taken off the sadness. Perhaps the effect wears off in time, or perhaps you don't notice it if you are born to it, but it does seem to me that the climate of richness must always be a little dulling to the senses. Perhaps it takes the edge off joy as well as off sorrow.

Thinking of death
strange, beautiful, terrible and a long way off
made me feel happier than ever.

We were restless for ages...After a while I heard an owl hooting and calmed myself by thinking of it flying over the dark fields – and then I remembered it would be pouncing on mice. I love owls, but I wish God had made them vegetarian.

At least we're companions in misfortune

I suppose the best kind of spring morning is the best weather God has to offer.

The tea was a comfort - and by that time I more than needed comfort.

Never have I felt so separate from her. And I regret to say that there were moments when my deep and loving pity for her merged into a desire to kick her fairly hard.

I know all about the facts of life, and I don't think much of them.

My God - it's a green child!" said the American. "What is this place - the House of Usher?

Perhaps what you call conventionality, I call decency.

Even a broken heart doesn't warrant a waste of good paper.

As she only cries about once a year I really ought to have gone over and comforted her, but I wanted to set it all down here. I begin to see that writers are liable to become callous.

I really am just as discontented, but I don't seem to notice it so much.

What with books and chocolate, there's not much else you could have in it, is there?

But during the many happy hours that Cadpig was to sit watching it in the warm kitchen she never liked it quite so much as that other television, that still silent television she had seen on Christmas Eve when the puppies had rested so peacefully in that strange lofty building. She often remembered that building and wondered who owned it. Someone very kind she was sure for in front of every one of the many seats there had been a little carpet-eared puppy-sized dog-bed.

I write this sitting in the kitchen sink.

Simon: You always were wise beyond your years.
Cassandra: No I wasn't. I used to be consciously naive.

The thought was horrible, yet fascinating.

She is a girl who cannot walk her troubles off, or work them off; she is a girl to sit around and glare.

Did you think of anything when Miss Marcy said Scoatney Hall was being re-opened? I thought of the beginning of Pride and Prejudice – where Mrs. Bennet says 'Netherfield Park is let a last.' And then Mr. Bennet goes over to call on the rich new owner.

I suddenly knew that religion, God - something beyond everyday life - was there to be found, provided one is really willing. And I saw that though what I felt in the church was only imagination, it was a step on the way; because imagination itself can be a kind of willingness - a pretense that things are real, due to one's longing for them. It struck me that this was somehow tied up with what the Vicar said about religion being an extension of art - and then I had a glimpse of how religion can really cure you of sorrow; somehow make use of it, turn it to beauty, just as art can make sad things beautiful.

I found myself saying: 'Sacrifice is the secret - you have to sacrifice things for art and it's the same
with religion; and then the sacrifice turns out to be a gain.' Then I got confused and I couldn't hold on to what I meant - until Miss Blossom remarked: 'Nonsense, duckie - it's prefectly simple. You lose yourself in something beyond yourself and it's a lovely rest.'

I saw that, all right. Then I thought: 'But that's how Miss Marcy cured her sorrow, too - only she lost herself in other people instead of in religion.' Which way of life was best - hers or the Vicar's? I decided that he loves God and merely likes the villagers, whereas she loves the villagers and merely likes God - and then I suddenly wondered if I could combine both ways, love God and my neighbor equally. Was I really willing to?

It made no difference. Just to be in love
seemed the most blissful luxury I had ever known. The thought came to me that perhaps it is the loving that counts, not the being loved in return - that perhaps true loving can never know anything but true happiness.

It's only the word God, you know--it makes such a conventional noise."
"It's only shorthand for where we come from, where we're going, and what it's all about."
"And do religious people find out what it's all about? Do they really get the answer to the riddle?"
"They just get a whiff of an answer sometimes.

So many of the loveliest things in England are melancholy.

Still, looking through the old volumes was soothing, because thinking of the past made the present seem a little less real.

Certain unique books seem to be without forerunners or successors as far as their authors are concerned. Even though they may profoundly influence the work of other writers, for their creator they're complete, not leading anywhere.

Sometimes [the expression] old age has a kind of harrowing beauty. But elderly - ugh!

Doing things for others gives you a lovely glow." "So does port," I said cynically.

It was a rather dreadful thought but somehow comforting.

I don't like the sound of all those lists he's making – it's like taking too many notes at school; you feel you've achieved something when you haven't.

The pictures are postcard reproductions of Old Masters. She has lots of metal animals about an inch long, little wooden shoes, painted boxes only big enough to hold stamps.

Now, paper and pencils, said Miss Marcy, clapping her hands.
Writing paper is scarce in this house, and I had no intention of tearing sheets out of this exercise book, which is a superb sixpenny one the Vicar gave me. In the end, Miss Marcy took the middle pages out of her library record, which gave us a pleasant feeling that we were stealing from the government, and then we sat round the table and elected her chairman.

And at last father flung the rug off as if it were hampering him and strode over to the table saying, 'cocoa, cocoa!'
it might have been the most magnificent drink in the world; which, personally, I think it is.

He laughed a little, in an odd, nervous kind of way. Because if I don't get going soon, the whole impetus may die
and if that happens, well, I really shall consider a long, restful plunge into insanity. Sometimes the abyss yawns very attractively.

Ah, but you're the insidious type
Jane Eyre with of touch of Becky Sharp. A thoroughly dangerous girl.

I don't want to miss anything.

My hand is very tired but I want to go on writing. I keep resting and thinking. All day I have been two people - the me imprisoned in yesterday and the me out here on the mound; and now there is a third me trying to get in - the me in what is going to happen next.

All I really want to write about is what happened just before he left. But if I let myself start with that I might forget some of the things which came first. And every word he said is of deepest value to me.

Truthfulness so often goes with ruthlessness.

The family - that dear octopus from whose tentacles we never quite escape, nor, in our inmost hearts, ever quite wish to.

It can't be immoral to love anyone -- as long as one doesn't hurt anyone by it.

And yet as my eyes turned to Stephen facing the sunrise from Simon in the darkness of my mind, it was as if Simon had been the living face and Stephen's the one I was imagining - or a photograph, a painting, something beautiful but not really alive for me. My whole heart was so full of Simon that even my pity for Stephen wasn't quite real - it was only something I felt I ought to feel, more from my head than from my heart. And I knew I ought to pity him all the more because I could pity him so little.

And though I cannot honestly say I would ever turn my back on any luxury that I could come by, I do feel there is something a bit wrong in it. Perhaps that makes it all the more enjoyable.

Just to be in love seemed the most blissful luxury I had ever known. The thought came to me that perhaps it is the loving that counts, not the being loved in return
that perhaps true loving can never know anything but happiness. For a moment I felt that I had discovered a great truth.

She will want things to stay just as they are. She will never have the fun of hoping something wonderful and exiting may be just around the corner.

They said this flat was converted but I think its still heathen

Well, my paper has asked me to do a series: Lives of the Great Musicians, reading time 2 minutes.

Oh, wise young judge.

Perhaps if I make myself write I shall find out what is wrong with me.

How indescribable the scent of autumn flowers was– barely a scent at all, really; just a faint, strange smell, pleasant but sad. Could a smell be sad or was it just the association with the dying summer?

It is rather exciting to write by moonlight.

She is a famous artists' model who claims to have been christened Topaz - even if this is true there is no law to make a woman stick to a name like that.

When I read a book, I put in all the imagination I can, so that it is almost like writing the book as well as reading it - or rather, it is like living it. It makes reading so much more exciting, but I don't suppose many people try to do it.

I glanced through another page in case I had missed something, and came to the description of Simon's face as he lay on the grass with his eyes closed. It gave me a stab in which happiness and misery were somehow a part of each other.

Not in the least," I said. "I understand everything you've said. But - oh, Simon, I feel so resentful! Why should father make things so difficult? Why can't he say what he means plainly?" "Because there's so much that just can't be said plainly. Try describing what beauty is - plainly - and you'll see what I mean." Then he said that art could state very little - that its whole business was to evoke responses. And that without innovations and experiments - such as father's - all art would stagnate. "That's why one ought not to let oneself resent them - though I believe it's a normal instinct, probably due to subconscious fear of what we don't understand.

There is something revolting about the way girls' minds so often jump to marriage long before they jump to love.

The Devil's out of fashion.

A loss of sensibility follows a loss of innocence, at once a penalty and a compensation.

How the intelligent young do fight shy of the mention of God! It makes them feel both bored and superior."

I tried to explain: "Well, once you stop believing in an old gentleman with a beard … It's only the word God, you know - it makes such a conventional noise."

"It's merely shorthand for where we come from, where we're going, and what it's all about."

"And do religious people find out what it's all about? Do they really get the answer to the riddle?"

"They get just a whiff of an answer sometimes." He smiled at me and I smiled back and we both drank our madeira. Then he went on: "I suppose church services make a conventional noise to you, too - and I rather understand it. Oh, they're all right for the old hands and they make for sociability, but I sometimes think their main use is to help weather churches - like smoking pipes to colour them, you know. If any - well, unreligious person, needed consolation from religion, I'd advise him or her to sit in an empty church. Sit, not kneel. And listen, not pray. Prayer's a very tricky business."

"Goodness, is it?"

"Well, for inexperienced pray-ers it sometimes is. You see, they're apt to think of God as a slot-machine. If nothing comes out they say 'I knew dashed well it was empty' - when the whole secret of prayer is knowing the machine's full."

"But how can one know?"

"By filling it oneself."

"With faith?"
<

Americans do seem to say things which make the English notice England.

I wonder if there isn't a catch about having plenty of money? Does it eventually take the pleasure out of things?

And suddenly all the puppies were her puppies; she was their mother - just as Pongo had felt he was their father.

I stood there ringing the bell and banging on the door, feeling I could make someone be there, knowing all the time that I couldn't.

Is that branch worrying you?" Simon asked her. "Would you like to change places? I hope you wouldn't because your hair looks so nice against the leaves

I love you, I love you, I love you. ~Cassandra

Once I really looked at the sky, I wanted to go on looking; it seemed to draw me towards it and make me listen hard, though there was nothing to listen to, not so much as a twig was stirring.

It was so nice that Simon was here for it - tell him I enjoyed every minute - ' it was glorious writing that - almost like telling him I was glad he'd kissed me. But after I'd posted the letter I was worried in case he guessed what I'd meant.

And they are like a drug, one needs them oftener and oftener and has to make them more and more exciting - until at last one's imagination won't work at all.

Things you let yourself imagine happening, never do happen.

I could look at stationers' shops forever and ever.

If you love people, you take them on trust.

I was so anxious to make him believe me that I leaned towards him, across the table. He looked at me, right into my eyes. That queer, veiled expression in his
that I fear I used to call his daft look
was suddenly not there; there seemed to be a light in them and yet I have never seen them look so dark. And they were do direct that it was more like being touched than being looked at. It only lasted a second, but for that second he was quite a different person
much more interesting, even a little bit exciting.

I could marry the Devil himself if he had some money.

Surely I could give him
a sort of contentment ...
That isn't enough to give. Not for the giver.

I suddenly knew it wasn't only the wonderful luxury of being in love that had been buoying me up: deep down, in some vague, mixed up way I had been letting myself hope he didn't really care for her, that it was me he loved and that kissing me would have made him realise it. 'You're a fool and worse -' I told myself. 'You're a would-be thief.

Oh, I have just had an idea - after tea I shall attack myself with sandpaper.

Like many other much-loved humans, they believed that they owned their dogs, instead of realizing that their dogs owned them.

I have noticed that when things happen in one's imaginings, they never happen in one's life, so I am curbing myself.

I like seeing people when they can't see me.

It was wonderful, of course
ham with mustard is a meal of glory.

I found it quite easy to carry on a casual conversation it was as if my real feelings were down fathoms deep in my mind and what we said was just a feathery surface spray.

Everything in the least connected with him has value for me; if someone even mentions his name it is like a little present to me
and I long to mention it myself, I start subjects leading up to it, and then feel myself going red. I keep swearing to myself not to speak of him again- and then an opportunity occurs and I jump at it.

You're the kind of child who might develop a passion for Bach.
I told him I hadn't at school. The one Bach piece I learnt made me feel I was being repeatedly hit on the head with a teaspoon.

Is it wrong for me to feel so happy? Perhaps I ought even to feel guilty? No. I didn't make it happen, and it can't hurt anyone but me. Surely I have a right to my joy. For as long as it lasts ...

And no bathroom on earth will make up for marrying a bearded man you hate.

Noble deeds and hot baths are the best cures for depression.

But I can't see how anyone could believe that you killed the bear with a pitchfork,' I said.
'I didn't. I only wounded it - badly, I think, but not enough to put it out of action. It came blundering towards me, I stepped aside and it crashed head-first into the river - I could hear it threshing about in the darkness. I picked up a big stone - poor brute, I hated to do it but I had to finish it off. It gave just one groan as the stone hit it and then went down. I held the lantern high; I could see the bubbles coming up. And then I saw the dark bulk of it under the water, being carried along by the current.'
'But you didn't have a lantern,' I said.
'He didn't have a bear,' said Topaz.

I had found out in that glittering corridor off the ballroom that being with him could be more painful than being away from him.

Then I told myself that as I never gave the Church a thought when I was feeling happy, I could hardly expect it to do anything for me when I wasn't. You can't get insurance money without paying in premiums.

It is odd how different a house feels when one is alone in it.

How I wish I lived in a Jane Austen novel!

Was I the only woman in the world who, at my age - and after a lifetime of quite rampant independence - still did not quite feel grown up?

Oh I daresay she can't help it - she's one of the women who oughn't be loved too kindly when they are some primitive desire for brutality makes them try to provoke it.