Margaret Storm Jameson (8 January 1891 – 30 September 1986) was an English journalist and author, known for her novels and reviews.
Women will always put persons above ideas. . . and so they'll always be defeated. Persons die, and ideas rule the world.
A minor symptom of wars is the cancerous growth of committees.
Great advertising is the expression of deep emotional sincerity.
Hope is a talent like any other.
Happiness comes of the capacity to feel deeply, to enjoy simply, to think freely, to risk life, to be needed.
Inevitably, the flood of literary pornography loosed on us is dulling our reactions of surprise or shock. Its writers are forced to raise the ante, to provide stronger and stronger stimulants. Or try to provide them, since both the manner, the naming of parts and the few inexpressive four-letter words, and the matter, are narrowly limited.
A nation has honor precisely as it has fleas - on this or that body. The statesman who talks of honor - unless he means something else, quite different - is a rogue.
Only one person in a thousand knows the trick of really living in the present. Most of us spend fifty-nine minutes an hour living in the past, with regret for lost joys or shame for things badly done (both utterly useless and weakening) or in a future which we either long for or dread. . . . There is only one minute in which you are alive, this minute, here and now. The only way to live is by accepting each minute as an unrepeatable miracle. Which is exactly what it is-a miracle and unrepeatable.
Pornography is essentially reductive, an exercise in the nothing-but mode, a depersonalizing of the human beings involved, a showing-up of human lust as nothing but an affair of the genitals.
The past is able to close round certain moments, as if they were seeds, and deliver them again fresh and living in the present.
the sex even in serious pornography has less singularity than the mating of squirrels.
What I do not know and cannot even hope to understand before I die is why human beings are willfully, coldly, matter-of-factly cruel to each other. . . What nerve has atrophied in the torturer, or worse is sensually moved?
There is only one world; the world pressing against you at this minute. There is only one minute in which you are alive; this minute here and now. The only way to live is by accepting each minute as an unrepeatable miracle.
Fear is the deep motive of abstract art - fear of a repellent civilization which is dominated by the power of things. . . . who can be surprised if, more sensitive than the others, the artist is terrified by the power things have acquired over us?
For what I have received may the Lord make me truly thankful. And more truly for what I have not received.
. . . we do not remember people as they were. What we remember is the effect they had on us then, but we remember it through an emotion charged with all that has since happened to us.
All pornography is to a degree sadistic - inevitably.
No form of art repeats or imitates successfully all that can be said by another; the writer conveys his experience of life along a channel of communication closed to painter, mathematician, musician, film-maker.
Very rare, the intelligence of the heart. The intelligence of the whimsical brain is less rare, less attaching, sometimes tedious.
When you talk of revolution. . . you never talk of the day after.