Quotes by Elizabeth Bowen

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Elizabeth Dorothea Cole Bowen (June 7, 1899 February 22, 1973) was an Anglo-Irish novelist and short story writer. Bowen was born in Dublin but when her father became mentally ill in 1907, she and her mother moved to London. After her mother died in 1912, Bowen was brought up by her aunts.

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When you love someone all your saved-up wishes start coming out.

Jealousy is no more than feeling alone against smiling enemies.
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 seeing or touching, begins to become love, and to lay one open to pain.
Nobody speaks the truth when there's something they must have.
Never to lie is to have no lock to your door, you are never wholly alone.
Some people are molded by their admirations, others by their hostilities.
Fate is not an eagle, it creeps like a rat.
The heart may think it knows better: the senses know that absence blots people out. We really have no absent friends. The friend becomes a traitor by breaking, however unwillingly or sadly, out of our own zone: a hard judgment is passed on him, for all the pleas of the heart.
It is not our exalted feelings, it is our sentiments that build the necessary home.
Nobody can be kinder than the narcissist while you react to life in his own terms.
Absence blots people out. We really have no absent friends.
Pity the selfishness of lovers: it is brief, a forlorn hope; it is impossible.
The charm, one might say the genius of memory, is that it is choosy, chancy, and temperamental: it rejects the edifying cathedral and indelibly photographs the small boy outside, chewing a hunk of melon in the dust.
Autumn arrives in early morning, but spring at the close of a winter day.
Intimacies between women go backwards, beginning with revelations and ending up in small talk without loss of esteem.
All your youth you want to have your greatness taken for granted; when you find it taken for granted, you are unnerved.
Experience isn't interesting until it begins to repeat itself. In fact, till it does that, it hardly is experience.
Art is the only thing that can go on mattering, once it has stopped hurting.
Illusions are art, for the feeling person, and it is by art that you live, if you do

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