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

I consider calmly the question of how much evil I should need to kill off my finer feelings.

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

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

One's thoughts are one's most crucial adventures. Seriously and strongly and intently to contemplate doing murder is everyway more exciting, more romantic, more profoundly tragic than the murder done.

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.

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.