For the eye has this strange property: it rests only on beauty.

Love, the poet said, is woman's whole existence.

Only longing can fill with more of itself.

The truth is, I often like women. I like their unconventionality. I like their completeness. I like their anonymity.

Methinks the human method of expression by sound of tongue is very elementary, and ought to be substituted for some ingenious invention which should be able to give vent to at least six coherent sentences at once.

For the eye has this strange property: it rests only on beauty.

There must be another life, she thought, sinking back into her chair, exasperated. Not in dreams; but here and now, in this room, with living people. She felt as if she were standing on the edge of a precipice with her hair blown back; she was about to grasp something that just evaded her. There must be another life, here and now, she repeated. This is too short, too broken. We know nothing, even about ourselves.