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

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.

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

Men were not equal in the effort they made, nor did equal efforts bring equal result. ... Equality of opportunity, yes. Equality of effort and result, no.

Great loves were almost always great tragedies. Perhaps it was because love was never truly great until the element of sacrifice entered into it.

the calm of a place like Bellwood is the peace of death without the hope of resurrection.

Of one thing the reader can be certain: the more easily anything reads, the harder it has been to write.