The sea was indistinguishable from the sky, except that the sea was slightly creased as if a cloth had wrinkles in it.

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

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.

All looked distant and peaceful and strange. The shore seemed refined, far away, unreal. Already the little distance they had sailed had put them far from it and given it the changed look, the composed look, of something receding in which one has no longer any part.

For it is probable that when people talk aloud, the selves (of which there may be more than two thousand) are conscious of disserverment, and are trying to communicate but when communication is established there is nothing more to be said.

The mind must be allowed to settle undisturbed over the object in order to secrete the pearl.

Once she knows how to read there's only one thing you can teach her to believe in and that is herself.