I wouldnt mind being a fly on the wall in a few Victorian parlours.

Even ashes are a part of your freedom.

Weep all the artful tears you like. You shall never make my hard heart the softer.

There is no patience so terrible as that of the deranged.

For was that all, she thought bleakly, that love ever was? Something that saved one from loneliness? A sort of insurance policy against not counting?

Read like mad. But try to do it analytically - which can be hard, because the better and more compelling a novel is, the less conscious you will be of its devices. It's worth trying to figure those devices out, however: they might come in useful in your own work.

We have a name for your disease. We call it a hyper-aesthetic one. You have been encouraged to over-indulge yourself in literature; and have inflamed your organs of fancy.