... why do people who live in the country always give themselves such airs?

For the young people could not talk. And why should they? Shout, embrace, swing, be up at dawn.

One cannot bring children into a world like this. One cannot perpetuate suffering, or increase the breed of these lustful animals, who have no lasting emotions, but only whims and vanities, eddying them now this way, now that.

Mr. Beerbohm in his way is perfect ... He has brought personality into literature, not unconsciously and impurely, but so consciously and purely that we do not know whether there is any relation between Max the essayist and Mr. Beerbohm the man. We only know that the spirit of personality permeates every word that he writes ... He is without doubt the prince of his profession.

A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.

The eyes of others our prisons; their thoughts our cages.

I thought how unpleasant it is to be locked out; and I thought how it is worse, perhaps, to be locked in.