All autobiography is self-indulgent.

...the routine of life goes on, whatever happens, we do the same things, go through the little performance of eating, sleeping, washing. No crisis can break through the crust of habit.

All whispers and echoes from a past that is gone teem into the sleeper's brain, and he is with them, and part of them.

He lacked tenderness; he was rude; and he had more than a streak of cruelty in him; he was a thief and a liar. He stood for everything she feared and hated and despised; but she knew she could love him... This was no choice made with the mind.

I wish I was a woman of about thirty-six dressed in black satin with a string of pearls.

All autobiography is self-indulgent.

We are all ghosts of yesterday, and the phantom of tomorrow awaits us alike in sunshine or in shadow, dimly perceived at times, never entirely lost.