It was strange to think that all the great women of fiction were, until Jane Austen's day, not only seen by the other sex, but seen only in relation to the other sex. And how small a part of woman's life is that.

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

Humor is the first of the gifts to perish in a foreign tongue.

How then did it work out, all this? How did one judge people, think of them? How did one add up this and that and conclude that it is liking one felt, or disliking?

What a labour writing is ... making one sentence do the work of a page; that's what I call hard work.

Romantic Love is only an Illusion. A story one makes up in One's Mind about Another Person.

The extraordinary woman depends on the ordinary woman.