I meant to write about death, only life came breaking in as usual

Soup is cuisines kindest course

I’m not clear enough in the head to feel anything but varieties of dull anger and arrows of sadness.

There is a sadness at the back of life which some people do not attempt to mitigate. Entirely aware of their own standing in the shadow, and yet alive to every tremor and gleam of existence, there they endure.

One ought to sink to the bottom of the sea, probably, and live alone with one's words.

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

They came to her, naturally, since she was a woman, all day long with this and that; one wanting this, another that; the children were growing up; she often felt she was nothing but a sponge sopped full of human emotions.