Often on a wet day I begin counting up; what I've read; what I haven't read.

You cannot cross the narrow bridge of art carrying all its tools in your hands. Some you must leave behind.

It is equally vain,” she thought, “for you to think you can protect me, or for me to think I can worship you. The light of truth beats upon us without shadow, and the light of truth is damnably unbecoming to us both.

One wanted, she thought, dipping her brush deliberately, to be on a level with ordinary experience, to feel simply that's a chair, that's a table, and yet at the same time, It's a miracle, it's an ecstasy.

We scarcely wish to analyse what we feel to be so large and deeply human.

I am all the time thinking about poetry and fiction and you.

Let it be fact, one feels, or let it be fiction; the imagination will not serve under two masters simultaneously.