Life piles up so fast that I have no time to write out the equally fast rising mound of reflections.

To depend upon a profession is a less odious form of slavery than to depend upon a father.

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.

Literature is no one’s private ground, literature is common ground; let us trespass freely and fearlessly and find our own way for ourselves.

When the shriveled skin of the ordinary is stuffed out with meaning, it satisfies the senses amazingly.

I was in a queer mood, thinking myself very old: but now I am a woman again - as I always am when I write.