Now this is very profound, what rhythm is, and goes far deeper than words. A sight, an emotion, creates this wave in the mind, long before it makes words to fit it.

What a labour writing is ... making one sentence do the work of a page; that's what I call hard work.

Literature is strewn with the wreckage of men who have minded beyond reason the opinions of others.

Thoughts without words… Can that be?

I have made up thousands of stories; I have filled innumerable notebooks with phrases to be used when I have found the true story, the one story to which all these phrases refer. But I have never yet found the story. And I begin to ask, Are there stories?

Lord, how tired one gets of one's own writing.

She felt drawing further from her and further from her an Archduke, (she did not mind that) a fortune, (she did not mind that) the safety and circumstance of married life, (she did not mind that) but life she heard going from her, and a lover.