Women have sat indoors all these millions of years, so that by this time the very walls are permeated by their creative force, which has, indeed, so overcharged the capacity of bricks and mortar that it must needs harness itself to pens and brushes and business and politics.

For books continue each other, in spite of our habit of judging them separately.

Her only gift was knowing people almost by instinct, she thought, walking on. If you put her in a room with someone, up went her back like a cat's; or she purred.

Middlemarch, the magnificent book which with all its imperfections is one of the few English novels for grown-up people.

I feel so intensely the delights of shutting oneself up in a little world of one’s own, with pictures and music and everything beautiful.

And again she felt alone in the presence of her old antagonist, life.

The real novelist, the perfectly simple human being, could go on, indefinitely imaging.