On the first of May, with my comrades of the catechism class, I laid lilac, chamomile and rose before the altar of the Virgin, and returned full of pride to show my blessed posy. My mother laughed her irreverent laugh and, looking at my bunch of flowers, which was bringing the may-bug into the sitting-room right under the lamp, she said: Do you suppose it wasn't already blessed before?

We only do well the things we like doing.

Writing only leads to more writing.

A pretty little collection of weaknesses and a terror of spiders are our indispensable stock-in-trade with the men...

At the top of the iron staircase leading to the stage, the good, dry, dusty warmth wraps me round like a comfortable dirty cloak.

There are no ordinary cats.

I believe there are more urgent and honorable occupations than the incomparable waste of time we call suffering.