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

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.

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.

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

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 . . .

Isadore [Duncan], who had an un-American genius for art, for organizing love, maternity, politics and pedagogy on a great personal scale, had also an un-American genius for grandeur.

In the history of art there are periods when bread seems so beautiful that it nearly gets into museums.