I won't be protected. I will choose for myself what is ladylike and right. To shield me is an insult.

The historian records, but the novelist creates.

It was unbearable, and he thought again, 'How unhappy I am!' and became happier.

It is never possible for a novelist to deny time inside the fabric of his novel: he must cling, however lightly, to the thread of his story, he must touch the interminable tapeworm, otherwise he becomes unintelligible, which, in his case, is a blunder.

It is the starved imagination, not the well nourished, that is afraid.

Let her go to Italy!" he cried. "Let her meddle with what she doesn't understand!

Words deserted him immediately. He could only speak when he was not asked to.