O friendship, I too will press flowers between the pages of Shakespeare's sonnets!

Most of a modest woman's life was spent, after all, in denying what, in one day at least of every year, was made obvious.

One ought to sink to the bottom of the sea, probably, and live alone with one's words.

Safe! safe! safe!' the pulse of the house beats wildly. Waking, I cry 'Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart.

It is as if Emily Brontë could tear up all that we know human beings by, and fill these unrecognizable transparencies with such a gust of life that they transcend reality.

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

Love ought to stop on both sides, don’t you think, simultaneously?’ He spoke without any stress on the words, so as not to wake the sleepers. ‘But it won’t - that’s the devil,’ he added in the same undertone.