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

There was a day when I liked writing letters -- it has gone. Unfortunately the passion for getting them remains.

It was as if someone had taken a tiny bead of pure life and decking it as lightly as possible with down and feathers, had set it dancing and zigzagging to show us the true nature of life.

Every face, every shop, bedroom window, public-house, and dark square is a picture feverishly turned--in search of what? It is the same with books. What do we seek through millions of pages?

Nothing induces me to read a novel except when I have to make money by writing about it. I detest them.

Whenever you see a board up with "Trespassers will be prosecuted," trespass at once.

O why do I ever let anyone read what I write! Every time I have to go through a breakfast with a letter of criticism I swear I will write for my own praise or blame in future. It is a misery.