Katherine Mansfield
Katherine Mansfield
Kathleen Mansfield Murrywas a prominent New Zealand modernist short story writer who was born and brought up in colonial New Zealand and wrote under the pen name of Katherine Mansfield. At 19, Mansfield left New Zealand and settled in the United Kingdom, where she became a friend of modernist writers such as D.H. Lawrence and Virginia Woolf. In 1917 she was diagnosed with extrapulmonary tuberculosis, which led to her death at the age of 34...
NationalityNew Zealander
ProfessionAuthor
Date of Birth14 October 1888
firsts
I'm a writer first and a woman after.
long lasts things-change
Oh, how quickly things changed! Why didn't happiness last for ever? For ever wasn't a bit too long.
writing moon light
The late evening is the time of times. Then with that unearthly beauty before one it is not hard to realise how far one has to go. To write something that will be worthy of that rising moon, that pale light.
moving wind emotion
Wind moving through grass so that the grass quivers. This moves me with an emotion I don't even understand.
ostriches important wish
The ostrich burying its head in the sand does at any rate wish to convey the impression that its head is the most important part of it.
our-love world whole-world
The whole world shall be ours because of our love.
understanding want superficial
I want, by understanding myself, to understand others.
lonely loneliness mask
It's a terrible thing to be alone - yes it is - it is - but don't lower your mask until you have another mask prepared beneath - as terrible as you like - but a mask.
force
Who is to decide between 'Let it be' and 'Force it'?
long joy sorrow
To long for everything: sorrow; to accept everything: joy.
baby moving rocks
conversation is like a dear little baby that is brought in to be handed round. You must rock it, nurse it, keep it on the move if you want it to keep smiling.
children littles creatures
Children are unaccountable little creatures.
dark remembers-everything childhood
Do you remember your childhood? I am always coming across these marvelous accounts by writers who declare that they remember 'everything.' I certainly don't. The dark stretches, the blanks, are much bigger than the bright glimpses. I seem to have spent most of my time like a plant in a cupboard.
people too-much littles
... I'd always rather be with people who loved me too little rather than with people who loved me too much.