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.

Curious, how one remembered Christmas. Perhaps because other days might appeal to the head, but this one appealed to the heart.

[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.

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

Politics is still the man's game. The women are allowed to do the chores, the dirty work, and now and then--but only occasionally--one is present at some secret conference or other. But it's not the rule. They can go out and get the vote, if they can and will; they can collect money, they can be grateful for being permitted to work. But that is all.

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

The author lives with one foot in an everyday world and the other feeling about anxiously for a foothold in another more precarious one.