[History is] that terrible mill in which sawdust rejoins sawdust.

As for the usefulness of poetry, its uses are many. It is the deification of reality.

The trouble about most Englishwomen is that they will dress as if they had been a mouse in a previous incarnation, or hope to be one in the next.

A great many people now reading and writing would be better employed keeping rabbits.

Virginia Woolf's writing is no more than glamorous knitting. I believe she must have a pattern somewhere.

What the reporters are like! They are mad with excitement at the thought of my approaching demise. Kind Sister Farquhar, my nurse, spends much of her time in throwing them downstairs. But one got in the other day, and asked me if I mind the fact that I must die.

Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire: it is the time for home.