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

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

I meant to write about death, only life came breaking in as usual

We are cut, we are fallen. We are become part of that unfeeling universe that sleeps when we are at our quickest and burns red when we lie asleep.

Sir, I would trust you with my heart. Moreover, we have left our bodies in the banqueting hall. Those on the turf are the shadows of our souls.

It would be a thousand pities if women wrote like men, or lived like men, or looked like men, for if two sexes are quite inadequate, considering the vastness and variety of the world, how should we manage with one only? Ought not education to bring out and fortify the differences rather than the similarities?

Rigid, the skeleton of habit alone upholds the human frame.