That would be a glorious life, to addict oneself to perfection; to follow the curve of the sentence wherever it might lead, into deserts, under drifts of sand, regardless of lures, of seductions; to be poor always and unkempt; to be ridiculous in Piccadilly.

With twice his wits, she had to see things through his eyes -- one of the tragedies of married life.

My brain hums with scraps of poetry and madness.

Let us simmer over our incalculable cauldron, our enthralling confusion, our hotchpotch of impulses, our perpetual miracle - for the soul throws up wonders every second. Movement and change are the essence of our being; rigidity is death; conformity is death; let us say what comes into our heads, repeat ourselves, contradict ourselves, fling out the wildest nonsense, and follow the most fantastic fancies without caring what the world does or thinks or says. For nothing matters except life.

All artists need a room of their own

The truth is, I often like women. I like their unconventionality. I like their completeness. I like their anonymity.

Her life was a tissue of vanity and deceit.