For books continue each other, in spite of our habit of judging them separately.

Let us again pretend that life is a solid substance, shaped like a globe, which we turn about in our fingers. Let us pretend that we can make out a plain and logical story, so that when one matter is despatched—love for instance—we go on, in an orderly manner, to the next.

The profound difference that divides the human race is a question of bait - whether to fish with worms or not.

I'm terrified of passive acquiescence. I live in intensity.

We can best help you to prevent war not by repeating your words and following your methods but by finding new words and creating new methods.

And when we are writing the life of a woman, we may, it is agreed, waive our demand for action, and substitute love instead. Love, the poet has said, is a woman's whole existence.

In the 18th century we knew how everything was done, but here I rise through the air, I listen to voices in America, I see men flying- but how is it done? I can't even begin to wonder. So my belief in magic returns.