Women want love to be a novel, men a short story.

The moment of crisis had come, and I must face it. My old fears, my diffidence, my shyness, my hopeless sense of inferiority, must be conquered now and thrust aside. If I failed now I should fail forever.

There is no going back in life. There is no return. No second chance.

People who mattered could not take the humdrum world. But this was not the world, it was enchantment; and all of it was mine.

How lacking in intuition men could be in persuading themselves that mending some stranger's socks, and attending to his comfort, could content a woman.

We're not meant for happiness, you and I.

Writers should be read, but neither seen nor heard.