The mind is the most capricious of insects — flitting, fluttering.

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

I have lost friends, some by death...others by sheer inability to cross the street.

We live in constant danger of coming apart. The mystery of why we do not always come apart is the animating tension of all art.

I detest the masculine point of view. I am bored by his heroism, virtue, and honour. I think the best these men can do is not talk about themselves anymore.

Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart.

It is no use trying to sum people up. One must follow hints, not exactly what is said, nor yet entirely what is done.