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

Bless you, my darling, and remember you are always in the heart - oh tucked so close there is no chance of escape - of your sister.

What is it with me? Am I absolutely nobody, but merely inordinately vain? I do not know…. But I am most fearfully unhappy. That is all. I am so unhappy that I wish I was dead—yet I should be mad to die when I have not yet lived at all.

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

Children are unaccountable little creatures.

I love the evening star. Does that sound foolish? I used to go into the backyard, after sunset, and wait for it until it shone above the dark gum tree. I used to whisper 'There you are, my darling.' And just in that first moment it seemed to be shining for me alone. It seemed to understand this ... something which is like longing, and yet it is not longing. Or regret - it is more like regret.

Regret is an appalling waste of energy, and no one who intends to be a writer can afford to indulge in it.