As a child, I thought I hated everybody, but when I grew up I realized it was just children I didn't like.

I think writing about unhappiness is probably the source of my popularity, if I have any - after all, most people are unhappy, don't you think?

I have a sense of melancholy isolation, life rapidly vanishing, all the usual things. It's very strange how often strong feelings don't seem to carry any message of action

It becomes still more difficult to find
Words at once true and kind,
Or not untrue and not unkind.

What are days for? Days are where we live. They come, they wake us Time and time over. Theyare to be happy in: Where can we live but days?

I wouldn't mind seeing China if I could come back the same day.

Novels seem to me to be richer, broader, deeper, more enjoyable than poems.