It was the intimacy, a sort of spiritual suppleness, when mind prints upon mind indelibly.

Moments like this are buds on the tree of life. Flowers of darkness they are.

I can only note that the past is beautiful because one never realises an emotion at the time. It expands later, and thus we don't have complete emotions about the present, only about the past.

Publicity in women is detestable. Anonymity runs in their blood. The desire to be veiled still possesses them. They are not even now as concerned about the health of their fame as men are, and, speaking generally, will pass a tombstone or a signpost without feeling an irresistible desire to cut their names on it.

There are no teachers, saints, prophets, good people, but the artists.

Of the rest some we know to be dead though they walk among us; some are not yet born though they go through the forms of life; others are hundreds of years old though they call themselves thirty-six.

Are we so made that we have to take death in small doses daily or we could not go on with the business of living?