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.

How remorseless life is!

The mind which is most capable of receiving impressions is very often the least capable of drawing conclusions.

Never pretend that the things you haven't got are not worth having.

There is no doubt in my mind, that I have found out how to begin (at 40) to say something in my own voice.

...the problem of space remained, she thought, taking up her brush again. It glared at her. The whole mass of the picture was poised upon that weight. Beautiful and bright it should be on the surface, feathery and evanescent, one colour melting into another like the colours on a butterfly's wing; but beneath the fabric must be clamped together with bolts of iron.

I'm sick to death of this particular self. I want another.