You have been in every way all that anyone could be.... If anybody could have saved me it would have been you.

Women have burnt like beacons in all the works of all the poets from the beginning of time.

Yet, she said to herself, form the dawn of time odes have been sung to love; wreaths heaped and roses; and if you asked nine people out of ten they would say they wanted nothing but this--love; while the women, judging from her own experience, would all the time be feeling, This is not what we want; there is nothing more tedious, puerile, and inhumane than this; yet it is also beautiful and necessary.

She came into a room; she stood, as he had often seen her, in a doorway with lots of people round her. But it was Clarissa one remembered. Not that she was striking; not beautiful at all; there was nothing picturesque about her; she never said anything specially clever; there she was however; there she was.

There was no freedom in life, and certainly there was none in death.

I think writing, my writing, is a species of mediumship. I become the person.

To read a novel is a difficult and complex art.