How one hates to think of oneself as alone. How one avoids it. It seems to imply rejection or unpopularity.

To mention a loved object, a person, or a place to someone else is to invest that object with reality.

Only when a tree has fallen can you take the measure of it. It is the same with a man.

The bearing, rearing, feeding and educating of children; the running of a house with its thousand details; human relationships with their myriad pulls - women's normal occupations in general run counter to creative life, or contemplative life, or saintly life.

Why is life speeded up so? Why are things so terribly, unbearably precious that you can't enjoy them but can only wait breathless in dread of their going?

Why is it that you can sometimes feel the reality of people more keenly through a letter than face to face?

Woman must come of age by herself... She must find her true center alone.