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.

To men and women who want to do things, there is nothing quite so driving as the force of an imprisoned ego. . . . All genius comes from this class.

[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.

From class consciousness to class hatred was but a step.

The only way to make a husband over according to one's ideas ... would be to adopt him at an early age, say four.

there comes a time when ambition ceases to burn, or romance to stir, and the highest cry of the human heart is for peace.

I found that my name signed to a check was even more welcome than when signed to a letter.