There is nothing for the modern man or woman to fear about most cases of cancer. Nothing except delay.

... if one can remember without loving, then couldn't one love without remembering?

there is something shameful about the death of a play. It does not die with pity, but contempt. A book may fail, but who is there to know it? It dies and is buried, and is decently interred on the bookseller's shelf; but the play dies to laughter, to scorn and disdain.

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.

having considerable mind, changing it became almost as ponderous an operation as moving a barn, although not nearly so stable.

there is no truly honest autobiography.

Women are like dogs really. They love like dogs, a little insistently. And they like to fetch and carry and come back wistfully after hard words, and learn rather easily to carry a basket.