I detest the masculine point of view. I am bored by his heroism, virtue, and honour. I think the best these men can do is not talk about themselves anymore.

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No passion is stronger in the breast of a man than the desire to make others believe as he believes. Nothing so cuts at the root of his happiness and fills him with rage as the sense that another rates low what he prizes high.

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Rigid, the skeleton of habit alone upholds the human frame.

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And all the lives we ever lived and all the lives to be are full of trees and changing leaves.

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Friendships, even the best of them, are frail things. One drifts apart.

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It is a thousand pities never to say what one feels.

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But nothing is so strange when one is in love (and what was this except being in love?) as the complete indifference of other people.

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He who robs us of our dreams robs us of our life.

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The most extraordinary thing about writing is that when you've struck the right vein, tiredness goes. It must be an effort, thinking wrong.

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For books continue each other, in spite of our habit of judging them separately.

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