If only she could put them together, she felt, write them out in some sentence, then she would have got at the truth of things.

Intimacy is a difficult art.

It is no use trying to sum people up.

Half the time she did things not simply, not for themselves; but to make people think this or that; perfect idiocy she knew for no one was ever for a second taken in.

No, she thought, one could say nothing to nobody. The urgency of the moment always missed its mark. Words fluttered sideways and struck the object inches too low.

Writing is still like heaving bricks over a wall.

I do not want to be admired. I want to give, to be given, and solitude in which to unfold my possessions.