What kind of country is this where a woman can't weep her heart out on the highways and byways without being tormented by retired bill-brokers!

I marshalled the words and opened my mouth, thinking I would hear them. But all I heard was a kind of rattle, unintelligible even to me who knew what was intended.

Decidedly it will never have been given to me to finish anything, except perhaps breathing. One must not be greedy.

Habit is a great deadener.

We all are born mad. Some remain so.

Then I went back into the house and wrote, It is midnight. The rain is beating on the windows. It was not midnight. It was not raining.

It is suicide to be abroad. But what it is to be at home, ... what it is to be at home? A lingering dissolution.