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

For we think back through our mothers if we are women.

It was odd, she thought, how if one was alone, one leant to inanimate things; trees, streams, flowers; felt they expressed one; felt they became one; felt they knew one, in a sense were one; felt an irrational tenderness thus (she looked at that long steady light) as for oneself.

You cannot cross the narrow bridge of art carrying all its tools in your hands. Some you must leave behind.

But I don't think of the future, or the past, I feast on the moment. This is the secret of happiness, but only reached now in middle age.

Are we so made that we have to take death in small doses daily or we could not go on with the business of living?

Venerable are letters, infinitely brave, forlorn, and lost.