New York is the meeting place of the peoples, the only city where you can hardly find a typical American.
About Djuna Barnes
Djuna Barnes was an American artist, illustrator, journalist, and writer who is perhaps best known for her novel Nightwood (1936), a cult classic of lesbian fiction and an important work of modernist literature.
In 1913, Barnes began her career as a freelance journalist and illustrator for the Brooklyn Daily Eagle.
More quotes from Djuna Barnes
Dreams have only the pigmentation of fact.
American Modernist writer, poet and artist (1892-1982)
A strong sense of identity gives man an idea he can do no wrong; too little accomplishes the same.
American Modernist writer, poet and artist (1892-1982)
This head has risen above its hair in a moment of abandon known only to men who have drawn their feet out of their boots to walk awhile in the corridors of the mind.
American Modernist writer, poet and artist (1892-1982)
Time is a great conference planning our end, and youth is only the past putting a leg forward.
American Modernist writer, poet and artist (1892-1982)
New York is the meeting place of the peoples, the only city where you can hardly find a typical American.
American Modernist writer, poet and artist (1892-1982)
After all, it is not where one washes one’s neck that counts but where one moistens one’s throat.
American Modernist writer, poet and artist (1892-1982)
We are beginning to wonder whether a servant girl hasn’t the best of it after all. She knows how the salad tastes without the dressing, and she knows how life’s lived before it gets to the parlor door.
American Modernist writer, poet and artist (1892-1982)
Life is painful, nasty and short… in my case it has only been painful and nasty.
American Modernist writer, poet and artist (1892-1982)
The night is a skin pulled over the head of day that the day may be in torment.
American Modernist writer, poet and artist (1892-1982)
Well, isn’t Bohemia a place where everyone is as good as everyone else – and must not a waiter be a little less than a waiter to be a good Bohemian?
American Modernist writer, poet and artist (1892-1982)
We are adhering to life now with our last muscle – the heart.
American Modernist writer, poet and artist (1892-1982)
What is a ruin but time easing itself of endurance?
American Modernist writer, poet and artist (1892-1982)
The heart of the jealous knows the best and most satisfying love, that of the other’s bed, where the rival perfects the lover’s imperfections.
American Modernist writer, poet and artist (1892-1982)
The priceless galaxy of misinformation called the mind.
American Modernist writer, poet and artist (1892-1982)
To love without criticism is to be betrayed.
American Modernist writer, poet and artist (1892-1982)
An image is a stop the mind makes between uncertainties.
American Modernist writer, poet and artist (1892-1982)