I am the cat that walks alone.

Satin and lace and brown velvet and the faint odor of violets. That was all which was left to him of his love.

If I had had to write only about imaginary people, I would have had to close up my typewriter. I wrote about my life in less and less disguise as I grew older, and finally with no disguise - except the disguise we create for ourselves, which is self-deception.

Sometimes she goes out to work as a practical nurse, and comes home and sits by the kitchen table soaking her feet in a pan of hot water and Epsom salts. When she gets into bed and the springs creak under her weight, she groans with the pleasure of lying stretched out on an object that understands her so well.

It was lovely when you found students who responded to things you were enthusiastic about.

If you turn the imagination loose like a hunting dog, it will often return with the bird in its mouth.

A writer is a reader who is moved to emulation.