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

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.

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

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

Genius is a talent only for living, those who possess it have little gift for dying.

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.

Proust has been dead since 1922, yet the annual appearance of his posthumous works has left him, to the reader, alive. Now there is nothing left to publish. Five years after his interment, Proust seems dead for the first time.