...in a time lacking in truth and certainty and filled with anguish and despair, no woman should be shamefaced in attempting to give back to the world, through her work, a portion of its lost heart.

The intellectual is a middle-class product; if he is not born into the class he must soon insert himself into it, in order to exist. He is the fine nervous flower of the bourgeoisie.

Innocence of heart and violence of feeling are necessary in any kind of superior achievement: The arts cannot exist without them.

No more pronouncements on lousy verse. No more hidden competition. No more struggling not to be a square.

Hate does not present many choices; if hate is your solution, you are fairly certain to hate all phemonena with equal joy and intensity, without troubling to drag into prominence any one feature from the loathsome whole.

O remember In your narrowing dark hours That more things move Than blood in the heart.

It is almost impossible for the poetess, once laurelled, to take off the crown for good or to reject values and taste of those who tender it.