Elizabeth Bibesco Quotes
Elizabeth, Princess Bibesco (née Elizabeth Charlotte Lucy Asquith; 26 February 1897 – 7 April 1945) was an English writer and socialite. She was the daughter of a British Prime Minister and the wife of a Romanian aristocrat. Active as a writer between 1921 and 1940, she drew on her experience in British high society in her work. A final posthumous collection of her stories, poems and aphorisms was published under the title Haven in 1951, with a preface by Elizabeth Bowen.
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What you possess is not what you jingle in the pockets of your memory, but the imaginings with which you fill the spaces of the future.
It is never good dwelling on good-byes ... it is not the being together that it prolongs, it is the parting.
To some people, the impossible is impossible. One fine day, they wake up in the morning knowing that they will never hold the moon in their hands, and with the certainty, perfect peace descends on them.
The only thing that matters is to have charm and expression. Then comes that horrible gnawing doubt of our own magnetism. Is it possible that, though we are not lovely, we are not irresistible either? That we will have to go through life belonging neither to the triumphantly beautiful nor to the triumphantly ugly?
All my life, I have loved balloons - all balloons - the heavy English sort, immense and round, that have to be pushed about, and the gay, light, gas-filled French ones that soar into the air the moment you let go of them.
Isn't that what love means, to fill ordinary, commonplace, conventional things with magic and significance, not to need the moon and white scent-heavy flowers at night?
You don't have to signal a social conscience by looking like a frump. Lace knickers won't hasten the holocaust, you can ban the bomb in a feather boa just as well as without, and a mild interest in the length of hemlines doesn't necessarily disqualify you from reading Das Kapital and agreeing with every word.
Influencing people is dangerous. Their acts and thoughts become your illegitimate children. You can't get away from them and Heaven knows what they mayn't grow up into.
Can one end anything? A chapter, a paragraph, a sentence even? Doesn't everything one has ever done go on living in spite of subsequent events?
It is better not to sit on the grass after thirty when sprawling at all is difficult, let alone sprawling gracefully.
There is nothing in the world like health. Live cleanly, and the high thinking will look after itself - or at least won't matter. Physical condition - there's nothing like it.
There is something very independent about French balloons - you feel you couldn't make a pet of one.
Only the artists interest me whose hearts beat in unison with the poignant misery of the world. If you have not felt that, you have not lived. Pity is essential.