But nothing is so strange when one is in love (and what was this except being in love?) as the complete indifference of other people.
But look – he flicks his hand to the back of his neck. For such gestures one falls hopelessly in love for a lifetime.
Books are the mirrors of the soul.
Blame it or praise it, there is no denying the wild horse in us.
Better was it to go unknown and leave behind you an arch, a potting shed, a wall where peaches ripen, than to burn like a meteor and leave no dust.
Beauty was not everything. Beauty had this penalty – it came too readily, came too completely. It stilled life – froze it.
As if language were wine upon his lips.
Anything may happen when womanhood has ceased to be a protected occupation.
Any one who’s worth anything reads just what he likes, as the mood takes him, with extravagant enthusiasm.
Am I a weed, carried this way, that way, on a tide that comes twice a day without a meaning?
All extremes of feeling are allied to madness.
A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.