A thousand kindnesses do not make up for a thousand blows.

But it's silly to suggest the writing of poetry is something ethereal, a sort of soul-crashing, devastating emotional experience that wrings you. I have no fancy ideas about poetry. ... It doesn't come to you on the wings of a dove. It's something you have to work hard at.

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

Perhaps this very instant is your time.

But is there any reason to believe that a woman's spiritual fibre is less sturdy than a man's? Is it not possible for a woman to come to terms with herself if not with the world; to withdraw more and more, as time goes on, her own personality from her productions; to stop childish fears of death and eschew charming rebellions against facts?

Because language is the carrier of ideas, it is easy to believe that it should be very little else than such a carrier.

Stupidity always accompanies evil. Or evil, stupidity.