I really don't advise a woman who wants to have things her own way to get married

I enjoy almost everything. Yet I have some restless searcher in me. Why is there not a discovery in life? Something one can lay hands on and say “This is it”? My depression is a harassed feeling. I’m looking: but that’s not it — that’s not it. What is it? And shall I die before I find it?

Does housekeeping interest you at all? I think it really ought to be just as good as writing and I never see where the separation between the too comes in. At least if you must put books on one side and life on the other, each is a poor and bloodless thing; but my theory is that they mix indistinguishable.

It is impossible for human beings, constituted as they are, both to fight and to have ideals.

When an arguer argues dispassionately he thinks only of the argument.

But I beneath a rougher sea, And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he.

writing is the profound pleasure and being read the superficial.