She could give herself up to the written word as naturally as a good dancer to music or a fine swimmer to water. The only difficulty was that after finishing the last sentence she was left with a feeling at once hollow and uncomfortably full. Exactly like indigestion.

Yes, I am sad, sad as a circus-lioness, sad as an eagle without wings, sad as a violin with only one string and that one broken, sad as a woman who is growing old. Sad, sad, sad.

I often want to cry. That is the only advantage women have over men — at least they can cry.

I long to be ... Like Other People! The extraordinary, ungetatable, oddly cruel Other People, with their way of wantonly hurting and then accusing you of being thin-skinned, sulky, vindictive or ridiculous.

Age seldom arrives smoothly or quickly. It's more often a succession of jerks.

I like shape very much. A novel has to have shape, and life doesn't have any.

The musty smell, the bugs, the lonliness, this room, which is part of the street outside-this is all I want from life.