There is something shameful about the death of a play. It does not die with pity, but contempt.

Death was a beginning and not an end; it was the morning of the spirit. Tired bodies lay down to sleep and their souls wakened to the morning, rested; the first fruits of them that slept.

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

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.

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

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

I began to feel that if religion was either an illusion or a revelation, it was simpler to accept it as an illusion.