You can’t just write and write and put things in a drawer. They wither without the warm sun of someone else’s appreciation.

Eternally, woman spills herself away in driblets to the thirsty, seldom being allowed the time, the quiet, the peace, to let the pitcher fill up to the brim.

Is there anything as horrible as starting on a trip? Once you're off, that's all right, but the last moments are earthquake and convulsion, and the feeling that you are a snail being pulled off your rock.

How hard it is to have the beautiful interdependence of marriage and yet be strong in oneself alone.

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

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

The beach is not the place to work; to read, write or think.