Ulysses ... is a dogged attempt to cover the universe with mud, an inverted Victorianism, an attempt to make crossness and dirt succeed where sweetness and light failed, a simplification of the human character in the interests of Hell.

Life is easy to chronicle, but bewildering to practice.

Then she lay on her back and gazed at the cloudless sky. Mr. Beebe, whose opinion of her rose daily, whispered to his niece that that was the proper way to behave if any little thing went wrong.

Those who search for truth are too conscious of the maze to be hard on others...

It isn't possible to love and part. You will wish that it was. You can transmute love, ignore it, muddle it, but you can never pull it out of you. I know by experience that the poets are right: love is eternal.

I'd far rather leave a thought behind me than a child. Other people can have children.

I have always found writing pleasant and don't understand what people mean by 'throes of creation.'