I was in a queer mood, thinking myself very old: but now I am a woman again - as I always am when I write.

How far do our feelings take their colour from the dive underground? I mean, what is the reality of any feeling?

A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.

The mind of an artist, in order to achieve the prodigious effort of freeing whole and entire the work that is in him, must be incandescent...there must be no obstacle in it, no foreign matter unconsumed.

Nothing thicker than a knife's blade separates happiness from melancholy.

If one is to deal with people on a large scale and say what one thinks, how can one avoid melancholy? I don’t admit to being hopeless, though: only the spectacle is a profoundly strange one; and as the current answers don’t do, one has to grope for a new one, and the process of discarding the old, when one is by no means certain what to put in their place, is a sad one.

Tom's great yellow bronze mask all draped upon an iron framework. An inhibited, nerve-drawn; dropped face - as if hung on a scaffold of heavy private brooding; and thought.