It is with pain that I read of the dire effects of my book upon the minds of young girls.

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

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

Genius, apart from natural sensitiveness, is prone equally to unreasoning joy and to bitterest morbidness.

When I wrote my book I wanted to love someone. I wanted to be in love. Now I know that I shall never be in love - and I no longer wish to be.

I want to write such things as compel the admiring acclamation of the world at large, such things as are written but once in years, things subtle but distinctly different from the books written every day.

I began to be a woman at twelve, or more properly, a genius.