The very condition of Woman is so subject to Hazard, so complex, and so grievous, that to place her at one moment is but to displace her at the next.

No man needs curing of his individual sickness; his universal malady is what he should look to.

This head has risen above its hair in a moment of abandon known only to men who have drawn their feet out of their boots to walk awhile in the corridors of the mind.

We are beginning to wonder whether a servant girl hasn't the best of it after all. She knows how the salad tastes without the dressing, and she knows how life's lived before it gets to the parlor door.

Even the contemplative life is only an effort, Nora my dear, to hide the body so the feet won’t stick out.

Destiny and history are untidy.

To think is to be sick.