Elizabeth Bowen

Elizabeth Dorothea Cole Bowen (7 June 1899 - 22 February 1973) was an Anglo-Irish novelist and short story writer. Bowen was born in Dublin and later brought to Bowen-s Court in County Cork where she spent her summers. When her father became mentally ill in 1907, she and her mother moved to England, eventually settling in Hythe. After her mother died in 1912, Bowen was brought up by her aunts

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Absence blots people out. We really have no absent friends.
All your youth you want to have your greatness taken for granted; when you find it taken for granted, you are unnerved.
Art is one thing that can go on mattering once it has stopped hurting.
Art is the only thing that can go on mattering, once it has stopped hurting.
If you look at life one way, there is always cause for alarm.
Illusions are art, for the feeling person, and it is by art that you live, if you do.
Intimacies between women go backwards, beginning with revelations and ending up in small talk without loss of esteem.
It is in this unearthly first hour of spring twilight that earth's almost agonized livingness is most felt. This hour is so dreadful to some people that they hurry indoors and turn on the lights.
Never to lie is to have no lock to your door, you are never wholly alone.
No object is mysterious. The mystery is in your eye.
Nobody can be kinder than the narcissist while you react to life in his own terms.
Nobody speaks the truth when there is something they must have.
Nobody speaks the truth when there's something they must have.
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.
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.
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.
When you love someone all your saved-up wishes start coming out.

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