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

Sleep, that deplorable curtailment of the joy of life.

London perpetually attracts, stimulates, gives me a play and a story and a poem, without any trouble, save that of moving my legs through the streets... To walk alone through London is the greatest rest.

But then anyone who's worth anything reads just what he likes, as the mood takes him, and with extravagant enthusiasm.

They all dreamt of each other that night, as was natural, considering how thin the partitions were between them, and how strangely they had been lifted off the earth to sit next each other in mid-ocean, and see every detail of each others' faces, and hear whatever they chanced to say.

Alone, condemned, deserted, as those who are about to die are alone, there was a luxury in it, an isolation full of sublimity; a freedom which the attached can never know

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