Ruin, weariness, death, perpetually death, stand grimly to confront the other presence of Elizabethan drama which is life: life compact of frigates, fir trees and ivory, of dolphins and the juice of July flowers, of the milk of unicorns and panthers’ breath, of ropes of pearl, brains of peacocks and Cretan wine.

Women have served all these centuries as looking glasses possessing the power of reflecting the figure of man at twice its natural size.

There is no doubt in my mind, that I have found out how to begin (at 40) to say something in my own voice.

To make ideas effective, we must be able to fire them off. We must put them into action.

Are we so made that we have to take death in small doses daily or we could not go on with the business of living?

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.

Nothing has really happened until it has been recorded.