Never are voices so beautiful as on a winter's evening, when dusk almost hides the body, and they seem to issue from nothingness with a note of intimacy seldom heard by day.

This is not writing at all. Indeed, I could say that Shakespeare surpasses literature altogether, if I knew what I meant.

I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.

I am not so gifted as at one time seemed likely.

When you consider things like the stars, our affairs don't seem to matter very much, do they?

I meant to write about death, only life came breaking in as usual

to write a novel in the heart of London is next to an impossibility. I feel as if I were nailing a flag to the top of a mast in a raging gale.