Better was it to go unknown and leave behind you an arch, then to burn like a meteor and leave no dust.

I am tied down with single words. But you wander off; you slip away; you rise up higher, with words and words in phrases.

A veil of insanity everywhere: Oh why I was born in this age? It is a terrible age.

Nothing has really happened until it has been recorded.

The poet gives us his essence, but prose takes the mould of the body and mind entire.

Does Nature supplement what man advanced? Or does she complete what he began?

Publicity in women is detestable. Anonymity runs in their blood. The desire to be veiled still possesses them. They are not even now as concerned about the health of their fame as men are, and, speaking generally, will pass a tombstone or a signpost without feeling an irresistible desire to cut their names on it.