A very elementary exercise in psychology, not to be dignified by the name of psycho-analysis, showed me, on looking at my notebook, that the sketch of the angry professor had been made in anger. Anger had snatched my pencil while I dreamt. But what was anger doing there? Interest, confusion, amusement, boredom--all these emotions I could trace and name as they succeeded each other throughout the morning. Had anger, the black snake, been lurking among them? Yes, said the sketch, anger had.

One of the signs of passing youth is the birth of a sense of fellowship with other human beings as we take our place among them.

The history of men's opposition to women's emancipation is more interesting perhaps than the story of that emancipation itself.

Life piles up so fast that I have no time to write out the equally fast rising mound of reflections.

There is something I want-something I have come to get, and she fell deeper and deeper without knowing quite what it was, with her eyes closed.

People ask me why I write. I write to find out what I know.

I like books whose virtue is all drawn together in a page or two. I like sentences that don't budge though armies cross them.