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

However great one's gift of language may be, there is always something that one cannot tell.

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

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

Well, if I am not vulgar, neither is my book. I wrote myself. Suggestiveness is always vulgar. But truth never. My book is not even remotely suggestive. I call things by their names. That is all.

I am lithe, but fragile from constant involuntary self-analysis.

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