There was nothing separate about her days. Like drops on the window-pane, they ran together and trickled away.

Now I know the things I know, and I do the things I do; and if you do not like me so, to hell, my love, with you!

I require only three things of a man. He must be handsome, ruthless and stupid.

All I say is, nobody has any business to go around looking like a horse and behaving as if it were all right. You don't catch horses going around looking like people, do you?

I'll think about something else. I'll just sit quietly. If I could sit still. If I could sit still, maybe I could read. Oh, all the books are about people who love each other, truly and sweetly. What do they want to write about that for? Don't they know it isn't true? Don't they know it's a lie, it's a God-damned lie? What do they have to tell about that for, when they know how it hurts?

It's easier to write about those you hate — just as it's easier to criticize a bad play or a bad book.

Said after she had been seriously ill: The doctors were very brave about it.