There'll be oceans of talk and emotions without end.

War is not women's history.

Fear no more, says the heart, committing its burden to some sea, which sighs collectively for all sorrows, and renews, begins, collects, lets fall

The real novelist, the perfectly simple human being, could go on, indefinitely imaging.

The history of most women is hidden either by silence, or by flourishes and ornaments that amount to silence.

To depend upon a profession is a less odious form of slavery than to depend upon a father.

The art of writing has for backbone some fierce attachment to an idea.