She had storms all her life, but she died peacefully.

She died with a knife in her hand in her kitchen, where she had cooked for fifty years, and the death was solemnly listed in the newspaper as that of an artist.

... people who don't want something are less likely to get it than people who do want something.

Women have invented nothing in all that, except the men who were born as male babies and grew up to be men big enough to be killed fighting.

By jove, no wonder women don't love war nor understand it, nor can operate in it as a rule; it takes a man to suffer what other men have invented . . .

When I hear a writer say that they ‘put in a call,’ I want to pull my hair out.

I act as a sponge. I soak it up and squeeze it out in ink every two weeks.