Biography is to give a man some kind of shape after his death.

How then did it work out, all this? How did one judge people, think of them? How did one add up this and that and conclude that it is liking one felt, or disliking?

Up here my eyes are green leaves, unseeing.

I [who] am perpetually making notes in the margin of my mind for some final statement.

I will dream today; for I must unscrew my head somehow.

scarcely a human being in the course of history has fallen to a woman's rifle; the vast majority of birds and beasts have been killed by you, not by us. Obviously there is for you some glory, some necessity, some satisfaction in fighting which we have never felt or enjoyed.

Who would not spout the family teapot in order to talk with Keats for an hour about poetry, or with Jane Austen about the art of fiction?