The most important thing is not to think very much about oneself. To investigate candidly the charge; but not fussily, not very anxiously. On no account to retaliate by going to the other extreme -- thinking too much.

The hatchet must fall on the block; the oak must be cleft to the centre. The weight of the world is on my shoulders. Here is the pen and the paper; on the letters in the wire basket I sign my name, I, I, and again I.

And yet, the only exciting life is the imaginary one.

So long as you write what you wish to write, that is all that matters; and whether it matters for ages or only for hours, nobody can say.

But nothing is so strange when one is in love (and what was this except being in love?) as the complete indifference of other people.

Like most uneducated Englishwomen, I like reading--I like reading books in the bulk.

Was not writing poetry a secret transaction, a voice answering a voice?