I, too, dislike it. Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one discovers in it, after all, a place for the genuine.

There is a great amount of poetry in unconscious fastidiousness.

A writer is unfair to himself when he is unable to be hard on himself.

[On her use of quotations:] When a thing has been said so well that it could not be said better, why paraphrase it? Hence my writing, is, if not a cabinet of fossils, a kind of collection of flies in amber.

The heart that gives, gathers.

Truly as the sun can rot or mend, love can make one bestial or make a beast a man.

The prey of fear, he, always curtailed, extinguished, thwarted by the dusk, work partly done, says to the alternating blaze, "Again the sun! anew each day; and new and new and new, that comes into and steadies my soul."