Literature is strewn with the wreckage of men who have minded beyond reason the opinions of others.
The great cathedral space which was childhood.
Shakespeare is getting flyblown; a paternal government might well forbid writing about him, as they put his monument at Stratford beyond the reach of scribbling fingers. With all this buzz of criticis...
I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.
Women are so suspicious of any interest that has not some obvious motive behind it, so terribly accustomed to concealment and suppression, that they are off at the flicker of an eye turned observingly...
Anyone who’s worth anything reads just what he likes, as the mood takes him, and with extravagant enthusiasm.
Often on a wet day I begin counting up; what I've read and what I haven't read.
How readily our thoughts swarm upon a new object, lifting it a little way, as ants carry a blade of straw so feverishly, and then leave it.
As a woman I have no country. As a woman I want no country. As a woman, my country is the whole world.
But love...it's only an illusion. A story one makes up in one's mind about another person. And one knows all the time it isn't true. Of course one knows why one's always taking care not to destroy the...
Every secret of a writer's soul, every experience of his life, every quality of his mind is written large in his works.
For women live much more in the past...they attach themselves to places;
Why does Samuel Butler say, 'Wise men never say what they think of women'? Wise men never say anything else apparently.
It was a great mistake to have come. He should have stayed at home and read his book, thought Peter Walsh; should have gone to a music hall; he should have stayed at home, for he knew no one.
It partook ... of eternity ... there is a coherence in things, a stability; something, she meant, is immune from change, and shines out (she glanced at the window with its ripple of reflected lights)...
It is no use trying to sum people up.
I do not want to be admired. I want to give, to be given, and solitude in which to unfold my possessions.
I am not one and simple, but complex and many.
Her eyes are pure stars, and her fingers, if they touch you, freeze you to the bone.
He who robs us of our dreams robs us of our life.