Well, I’ve had my fun; I’ve had it, he thought, looking up at the swinging baskets of pale geraniums. And it was smashed to atoms—his fun, for it was half made up, as he knew very well; invented, this escapade with the girl; made up, as one makes up the better part of life, he thought—making onself up; making her up; creating an exquisite amusement, and something more. But odd it was, and quite true; all this one could never share—it smashed to atoms.

Beauty was not everything. Beauty had this penalty — it came too readily, came too completely. It stilled life — froze it.

After all, what is a lovely phrase? One that has mopped up as much Truth as it can hold.

The history of most women is hidden either by silence, or by flourishes and ornaments that amount to silence.

Human beings have neither kindness, nor faith, nor charity beyond what serves to increase the pleasure of the moment.

The history of men's opposition to women's emancipation is more interesting perhaps than the story of that emancipation itself.

I begin to long for some little language such as lovers use, broken words, inarticulate words, like the shuffling of feet on pavement.