I enjoy the spring more than the autumn now. One does, I think, as one gets older.

Odd how the creative power at once brings the whole universe to order.

Theories then are dangerous things.

It is probable that both in life and in art the values of a woman are not the values of a man.

Habits and customs are a convenience devised for the support of timid natures who dare not allow their souls free play.

But nothing is so strange when one is in love (and what was this except being in love?) as the complete indifference of other people.

Wine has a drastic, an astringent taste. I cannot help wincing as I drink. Ascent of flowers, radiance and heat, are distilled here to a fiery, yellow liquid. Just behind my shoulder-blades some dry thing, wide-eyed, gently closes, gradually lulls itself to sleep. This is rapture. This is relief.