A thousand things to be written had I time: had I power. A very little writing uses up my capacity for writing.

As a woman I have no country. As a woman my country is the whole world.

What does the brain matter compared with the heart?

That would be a glorious life, to addict oneself to perfection; to follow the curve of the sentence wherever it might lead, into deserts, under drifts of sand, regardless of lures, of seductions; to be poor always and unkempt; to be ridiculous in Piccadilly.

I feel that by writing I am doing what is far more necessary than anything else.

Distorted realities have always been my cup of tea.

The weight of the world is on our shoulders, its vision is through our eyes; if we blink or look aside, or turn back to finger what Plato said or remember Napoleon and his conquests, we inflict on the world the injury of some obliquity. This is life.