He lay on his chair with his hands clasped above his paunch not reading, or sleeping, but basking like a creature gorged with existence.

My brain hums with scraps of poetry and madness.

I do not want to be admired. I want to give, to be given, and solitude in which to unfold my possessions.

Talents of the novelist: ... observation of character, analysis of emotion, people's feelings, personal relations.

To make ideas effective, we must be able to fire them off. We must put them into action.

Am I a weed, carried this way, that way, on a tide that comes twice a day without a meaning?

The history of men's opposition to women's emancipation is more interesting perhaps than the story of that emancipation itself.