I cannot believe that the inscrutable universe turns on an axis of suffering; surely the strange beauty of the world must somewhere rest on pure joy!

Your work is carved out of agony as a statue is carved out of marble.

...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.

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?

I don't like quintessential certitude.

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

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.