There is only one real tragedy in a woman's life. The fact that her past is always her lover, and her future invariably her husband.

The only one you need in your life is that person who shows you he needs you in his.

Any place you love is the world to you”, explained the pensive Catherine Wheel, who had been attached to an old deal box in early life, and prided herself on her broken heart; “but love is not fashionable any more, the poets have killed it. They wrote so much about that nobody believed them, and I am not surprised. True love suffers, and is silent. I remember myself once- But it is no matter now. Romance is a thing of the past.

In a very ugly and sensible age, the arts borrow, not from life, but from each other.

The fact is, that civilization requires slaves. Unless there are slaves to do the ugly, horrible, uninteresting work, culture and contemplation become almost impossible.

We women adore failures. They lean on us.

I treated Art as the supreme reality and life as a mere mode of fiction.