I do not see any beauty in self-restraint.

You may think me crude, and probably I am crude, but I am not so crude as I was, for I am clever enough to see that the girl of nineteen who thought herself a genius was only an unusual girl writing her heart out.

The world is like a little marsh filled with mint and white hawthorn.

Fame is indeed beautiful and benign and gentle and satisfying, but happiness is something at once tender and brilliant beyond all things.

I am not good. I am not virtuous. I am not sympathetic. I am not generous. I am merely and above all a creature of intense passionate feeling. I feel—everything. It is my genius. It burns me like fire.

People say of me, 'She's peculiar.' They do not understand me. If they did they would say so oftener and with emphasis.

I do not sing nor play, but I adore music, particularly Chopin. I like him because I cannot understand him.