It's not catastrophes, murders, deaths, diseases, that age and kill us; it's the way people look and laugh, and run up the steps of omnibuses.

The flower bloomed and faded. The sun rose and sank. The lover loved and went. And what the poets said in rhyme, the young translated into practice.

She had the perpetual sense, as she watched the taxi cabs, of being out, out, far out to sea and alone; she always had the feeling that it was very, very, dangerous to live even one day.

How far do our feelings take their colour from the dive underground? I mean, what is the reality of any feeling?

It is useless to read Greek in translation; translators can but offer us a vague equivalent.

Anything may happen when womanhood has ceased to be a protected occupation.

Use words that soak up life.