Lord, how tired one gets of one's own writing.

All women together ought to let flowers fall upon the tomb of Aphra Behn, for it was she who earned them the right to speak their minds.

The interest in life does not lie in what people do, nor even in their relations to each other, but largely in the power to communicate with a third party, antagonistic, enigmatic, yet perhaps persuadable, which one may call life in general.

It is a thousand pities never to say what one feels.

But what a little I can get down into my pen of what is so vivid to my eyes, and not only to my eyes; also to some nervous fibre, or fanlike membrane in my species.

Long ago I realized that no other person would be to me what you are.

It seemed to her such nonsense-inventing differences, when people, heaven knows, were different enough without that.