Do you think amethysts can be the souls of good violets?

Who would endure life if it were not for the hope of death?

As a rule, I am very careful to be shallow and conventional where depth and originality are wasted.

It was in the spring that Josephine and I had first loved each other, or, at least, had first come into the full knowledge that we loved. I think that we must have loved each other all our lives, and that each succeeding spring was a word in the revelation of that love, not to be understood until, in the fullness of time, the whole sentence was written out in that most beautiful of all beautiful springs.

What care I if it be "wild and improbable" and "lacking in literary art"? I refuse to be any longer hampered by such canons of criticism. The one essential thing I demand of a book is that it should interest me. If it does, I forgive it every other fault.

Nobody can keep on being angry if she looks into the heart of a pansy for a little while.

You'll never write anything that really satisfies you though it may satisfy other people.