For beyond the difficulty of communicating oneself, there is the supreme difficulty of being oneself.

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

People only become writers if they can't find the one book they've always wanted to read.

Nothing induces me to read a novel except when I have to make money by writing about it. I detest them.

How many times have people used a pen or paintbrush because they couldn’t pull the trigger?

I like people to be unhappy because I like them to have souls.

Love and religion! thought Clarissa, going back into the drawing room, tingling all over. How detestable, how detestable they are!