The woman had a humble, cringing manner. Of course, she had discovered that, having neither money nor virtue, she had better be humble if she knew what was good for her.

The perpetual hunger to be beautiful and that thirst to be loved which is the real curse of Eve.

All of a writer that matters is in the book or books. It is idiotic to be curious about the person.

If I was bound for hell, let it be hell. No more false heaven. No more damned magic.

I'm no use to anybody,' I say. 'I'm a cérébrale, can't you see that?' Thinking how funny a book would be, called 'Just a Cérébrale or You Can't Stop Me From Dreaming'. Only, of course, to be accepted as authentic, to carry any conviction, it would have to be written by a man. What a pity, what a pity!

Of course she had some pathetic illusions about herself or she would not be able to go on living.

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