She felt... how life, from being made up of little separate incidents which one lived one by one, became curled and whole like a wave which bore one up with it and threw one down with it, there, with a dash on the beach.

The habit of writing for my eye is good practice. It loosens the ligaments.

Where the Mind is biggest, the Heart, the Senses, Magnanimity, Charity, Tolerance, Kindliness, and the rest of them scarcely have room to breathe.

Facts must be manipulated; some must be brightened; others shaded; yet, in the process, they must never lose their integrity.

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

To read a novel is a difficult and complex art. You must be capable not only of great fineness of perception, but of great boldness of imagination.

It is impossible for human beings, constituted as they are, both to fight and to have ideals.