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

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

True revolutions in art restore more than they destroy.

Women have no wilderness in them They are provident instead Content in the tight hot cell of their hearts To eat dusty bread.

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?

It is through the acceptance of a variety of aethetic and intellectual points of view that a culture is given breadth and density.

But childhood prolonged, cannot remain a fairyland. It becomes a hell.