Life, the permission to know death.

I have been loved,' she said, 'by something strange, and it has forgotten me.

I can draw and write, and you'd be foolish not to hire me.

There's something evil in me that loves evil and degradation--purity's black backside! That loves honesty with a horrid love; or why have I always gone seeking it at the liar's door?

None of us suffers as much as we should, or loves as much as we say. Love is the first lie; wisdom the last.

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.

We are but skin about a wind, with muscles clenched against mortality.