He thought her beautiful, believed her impeccably wise; dreamed of her, wrote poems to her, which, ignoring the subject, she corrected in red ink.

For there is a virtue in truth; it has an almost mystic power. Like radium, it seems to give off forever and ever grains of energy, atoms of light.

We are nauseated by the sight of trivial personalities decomposing in the eternity of print.

Like most uneducated Englishwomen, I like reading--I like reading books in the bulk.

The truth is, I often like women. I like their unconventionality. I like their completeness. I like their anonymity.

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

How far we are going to read a poet when we can read about a poet is a problem to lay before biographers.