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

Every writer knows the terror of an unexpected success. How to carry on? How to repeat it?

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.

What a tragedy it was that the only thing age could offer to youth was its own experience, and that the experiences of others were never profitable.

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

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.

The greatest weapon in the world ... is ridicule.