Beauty was not everything. Beauty had this penalty — it came too readily, came too completely. It stilled life — froze it.

My mind turned by anxiety, or other cause, from its scrutiny of blank paper, is like a lost child–wandering the house, sitting on the bottom step to cry.

She had the perpetual sense, as she watched the taxi cabs, of being out, out, far out to sea and alone; she always had the feeling that it was very, very, dangerous to live even one day.

It is in our idleness, in our dreams, that the submerged truth sometimes comes to the top.

Novels so often provide an anodyne and not an antidote, glide one into torpid slumbers instead of rousing one with a burning brand.

I have sought happiness through many ages and not found it.

Biography is to give a man some kind of shape after his death.