She was like a crinkled poppy; with the desire to drink dry dust.

Consolation for those moments when you can't tell whether you're the divinest genius or the greatest fool in the world.

When I cannot see words curling like rings of smoke round me I am in darkness—I am nothing.

The real novelist, the perfectly simple human being, could go on, indefinitely imaging.

Half the time she did things not simply, not for themselves; but to make people think this or that; perfect idiocy she knew for no one was ever for a second taken in.

Life is not a series of gig lamps symmetrically arranged; life is a luminous halo, a semi-transparent envelope surrounding us from the beginning of consciousness to the end.

How remorseless life is!