One of the signs of passing youth is the birth of a sense of fellowship with other human beings as we take our place among them.

Like" and "like" and "like"--but what is the thing that lies beneath the semblance of the thing?

To look life in the face, always, to look life in the face, and to know it for what it is...at last, to love it for what it is, and then, to put it away.

While fame impedes and constricts, obscurity wraps about a man like a mist; obscurity is dark, ample, and free; obscurity lets the mind take its way unimpeded. Over the obscure man is poured the merciful suffusion of darkness. None knows where he goes or comes. He may seek the truth and speak it; he alone is free; he alone is truthful, he alone is at peace.

How far do our feelings take their colour from the dive underground? I mean, what is the reality of any feeling?

There is no doubt in my mind, that I have found out how to begin (at 40) to say something in my own voice.

Publicity in women is detestable. Anonymity runs in their blood. The desire to be veiled still possesses them. They are not even now as concerned about the health of their fame as men are, and, speaking generally, will pass a tombstone or a signpost without feeling an irresistible desire to cut their names on it.