It seemed to her such nonsense-inventing differences, when people, heaven knows, were different enough without that.

I do not want to be admired. I want to give, to be given, and solitude in which to unfold my possessions.

For now she need not think of anybody. She coud be herself, by herself. And that was what now she often felt the need of - to think; well not even to think. To be silent; to be alone. All the being and the doing, expansive, glittering, vocal, evaporated; and one shrunk, with a sense of solemnity, to being oneself, a wedge-shaped core of darkness, something invisible to others... and this self having shed its attachments was free for the strangest adventures.

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

Are we so made that we have to take death in small doses daily or we could not go on with the business of living?

If you insist upon fighting to protect me, or 'our' country, let it be understood soberly and rationally between us that you are fighting to gratify a sex instinct which I cannot share; to procure benefits where I have not shared and probably will not share.

The strange thing about life is that though the nature of it must have been apparent to every one for hundreds of years, no one has left any adequate account of it.