I read of the Kalamazoo girl who killed herself after reading the book. I am not at all surprised. She lived in Kalamazoo, for one thing, and then she read the book.

Are there many things in this cool-hearted world so utterly exquisite as the pure love of one woman for another woman?

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

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

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

I never give my real self. I have a hundred sides, and I turn first one way and then the other. I am playing a deep game. I have a number of strong cards up my sleeve. I have never been myself, excepting to two friends.