I'm just tired of everything…even of the echoes. There is nothing in my life but echoes…echoes of lost hopes and dreams and joys. They're beautiful and mocking.

You have the itch for writing born in you. It's quite incurable. What are you going to do with it?

I feel as though someone's handed me the moon... and I don't exactly know what to do with it.

I love pretty things; and I hate to look in the glass and see something that isn't pretty. It makes me feel so sorrowful—just as I feel when I look at any ugly thing. I pity it because it isn't beautiful.

Life owes me something more than it has paid me and I'm going out to collect it.

Anyone who has gumption knows what it is, and anyone who hasn’t can never know what it is. So there is no need of defining it.

You are the only person who loves me in the world," said Elizabeth. "When you talk to me I smell violets.