Women who say it's not O.K. are [interpreted as] wet blankets or sore losers.
The lands are lit with all the autumn blaze of golden-rod, and everywhere the purple asters nod and bend and wave and flit.
Oh, write of me, not Died in bitter pains, but Emigrated to another star!
I think I'm a weird combination of deeply introverted and very daring. I can feel both those things working.
A small step in a good direction.
As soon as I began, it seemed impossible to write fast enough – I wrote faster than I would write a letter – two thousand to three thousand words in a morning, and I cannot help it.