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

It is equally vain,” she thought, “for you to think you can protect me, or for me to think I can worship you. The light of truth beats upon us without shadow, and the light of truth is damnably unbecoming to us both.

It is a thousand pities never to say what one feels.

Literature is strewn with the wreckage of men who have minded beyond reason the opinions of others.

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.

...she always had the feeling that it was very, very dangerous to live even one day.

Yield to that strange passion which sends you madly whirling round the room.