I shall be glad when you have strangled the invincible respectability that dogs your steps.

But the effort, the effort! And as the marrow is eaten out of a man's bones and the soul out of his belly, contending with the strange rapacity of savage life, the lower stage of creation, he cannot make the effort any more.

Sleep is a hint of lovely oblivion.

But that is how men are! Ungrateful and never satisfied. When you don't have them they hate you because you won't; and when you do have them they hate you again, for some other reason. Or for no reason at all, except that they are discontented children, and can't be satisfied whatever they get, let a woman do what she may.

The American grips himself, at the very sources of his consciousness, in a grip of care: and then, to so much of the rest of life, is indifferent. Whereas, the European hasn't got so much care in him, so he cares much more for life and living.

I never know when I sit down, just what I am going to write. I make no plan; it just comes, and I don't know where it comes from.

Sleep is still most perfect, in spite of hygienists, when it is shared with a beloved.