She had dreamed some brilliant dreams during the past winter and now they lay in the dust around her. In her present mood of self-disgust, she could not immediately begin dreaming again. And she discovered that, while solitude with dreams is glorious, solitude without them has few charms.

War was a hellish, horrible hideous thing - too horrible and hideous to happen in the twentieth century between civilised nations.

Isn't it better to have your heart broken than to have it wither up? Before it could be broken it must have felt something splendid. That would be worth the pain.

No use in taking a cat's opinion of a dog.

Reading stories is bad enough but writing them is worse.

We should regret our mistakes and learn from them, but never carry them forward into the future with us.

Why did dusk and fir-scent and the afterglow of autumnal sunsets make people say absurd things?