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.

Fatigue is the safest sleeping draught.

... if we can imagine the art of fiction come alive and standing in our midst, she would undoubtedly bid us to break her and bullyher, as well as honour and love her, for so her youth is renewed and her sovereignty assured.

Intimacy is a difficult art.

I got out this diary, & read as one always does read one's own writing, with a kind of guilty intensity.

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

Let us not take for granted that life exists more fully in what is commonly thought big than in what is commonly thought small.