Perhaps it does not matter so very much what it is one loves in this world. But love something one must.

Isn't life,' she stammered, 'isn't life--' But what life was she couldn't explain. No matter. He quite understood. 'Isn't it, darling?' said Laurie.

I feel I must live alone, alone, alone - with artists only to touch the door. Every artist cuts off his ear and nails it on the outside of the door for the others to shout into.

That's all life is - something childish and very natural. Isn't it?

roses are the only flowers at garden-parties; the only flowers that everybody is certain of knowing.

The pleasure of all reading is doubled when one lives with another who shares the same books.

Ah, what happiness it is to be with people who all are happy, to press hands, press cheeks, smile into eyes.