Nothing like poetry when you lie awake at night. It keeps the old brain limber. It washes away the mud and sand that keeps on blocking up the bends. Like waves to make the pebbles dance on my old floors. And turn them into rubies and jacinths; or at any rate, good imitations.

Reality is a narrow little house which becomes a prison to those who can't get out of it.

Sara could commit adultery at one end and weep for her sins at the other, and enjoy both operations at once.

When a woman gets the idea of justice, there's no teaching her any sense.

The will is never free - it is always attached to an object, a purpose. It is simply the engine in the car - it can't steer

Where can one find a profounder desolation than in the poor child who has lost its mother?

Something you have to make...It's all work, work.