The immense success of our life is, I think, that our treasure is hid away; or rather in such common things that nothing can touch it.

How far we are going to read a poet when we can read about a poet is a problem to lay before biographers.

It was a silly, silly dream, being unhappy.

Let us again pretend that life is a solid substance, shaped like a globe, which we turn about in our fingers. Let us pretend that we can make out a plain and logical story, so that when one matter is despatched—love for instance—we go on, in an orderly manner, to the next.

I can only note that the past is beautiful because one never realises an emotion at the time. It expands later, and thus we don't have complete emotions about the present, only about the past.

Only longing can fill with more of itself.

Have you any notion how many books are written about women in the course of one year? Have you any notion how many are written by men? Are you aware that you are, perhaps, the most discussed animal in the universe?