[When working on a book] I have an almost complete detachment from the world I live in, a sort of armor against distraction. I talk to people, move about, appear on the surface much as usual. But later on I have only a confused memory of what has happened during that period.

Love sees clearly, and seeing, loves on. But infatuation is blind; when it gains sight, it dies.

[To her frequently needed plumber:] How would you like to be adopted? I'm sure it would be cheaper.

A little work, a little sleep, a little love and it's all over.

it is axiomatic with most writing people that there are no such things as perfect conditions for work.

I believe that the matter is automatically self-regulating; that those women who prefer the home and have an ability for it will eventually return to it; that others, like myself, will compromise; and that still others, temperamentally unfitted for it, will remain in the world to add to its productivity.

I have never learned to say 'gas' for gasoline. It seems to me as absurd as if I were to say 'but' for butter.