All this pitting of sex against sex, of quality against quality; all this claiming of superiority and imputing of inferiority belong to the private-school stage of human existence where there are sides, and it is necessary for one side to beat another side.

When you consider things like the stars, our affairs don't seem to matter very much, do they?

Moreover, a book is not made of sentences laid end to end, but of sentences built, if an image helps, into arcades or domes.

It is far harder to kill a phantom than a reality.

Her only gift was knowing people almost by instinct, she thought, walking on. If you put her in a room with someone, up went her back like a cat's; or she purred.

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

It would be a thousand pities if women wrote like men, or lived like men, or looked like men, for if two sexes are quite inadequate, considering the vastness and variety of the world, how should we manage with one only? Ought not education to bring out and fortify the differences rather than the similarities?