The great white city of brotherhood, Washington.

I don't know what imagination is, if not an unpruned, tangled kind of memory.

There'll be no sense in sexual theories until women start telling their minds; and, of course, until they have some.

There are so may ways to kills yourself, they're just old-fashioned with their permanganate: do you think I'd take permanganate? I wouldn't want to burn my insides out and live to tell the tale as well: idiots! It's simple, I'd drown myself... Why be in misery at the last?

Ye want to tell the plain truth all your life, woman, and speak straight; otherwise ye get to seeing double.

A woman can't be, until a girl dies. . . . I mean the sprites that girls are, so different from us, all their fancies, their illusions, their flower world, the dreams they live in.

Old age is perhaps life's decision about us.