They lack suggestive power. And when a book lacks suggestive power, however hard it hits the surface of the mind it cannot penetrate within.

I am not so gifted as at one time seemed likely.

I do not want to be admired. I want to give, to be given, and solitude in which to unfold my possessions.

History is too much about wars; biography too much about great men.

She felt, with her hand on the nursery door, that community of feeling with other people which emotion gives as if the walls of partition had become so thin that practically (the feeling was one of relief and happiness) it was all one stream.

The sea was indistinguishable from the sky, except that the sea was slightly creased as if a cloth had wrinkles in it.

She had known happiness, exquisite happiness, intense happiness, and it silvered the rough waves a little more brightly, as daylight faded, and the blue went out of the sea and it rolled in waves of pure lemon which curved and swelled and broke upon the beach and the ecstasy burst in her eyes and waves of pure delight raced over the floor of her mind and she felt, It is enough! It is enough!