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.

And I don't like books which are full of name dropping.

I thought of all those heroines of fiction who looked pretty when they cried, and what a contrast I must make with a blotched and swollen face, and red rims to my eyes.

Writers should be read, but neither seen nor heard.

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.

Writing every book is like a purge; at the end of it one is empty ... like a dry shell on the beach, waiting for the tide to come in again.

Come and see us if you feel like it,' she said. 'I always expect people to ask themselves. Life is too short to send out invitations.