In illness words seem to possess a mystic quality.

To depend upon a profession is a less odious form of slavery than to depend upon a father.

I press to my centre, and find there is something there.

On or about December 1910, human character changed.

I spent an hour looking at pots and carpets in the museums the other day, until the desire to describe them became like the desire for the lusts of the flesh.

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.

Sometimes I think heaven must be one continuous unexhausted reading.