Alone, I often fall down into nothingness. I must push my foot stealthily lest I should fall off the edge of the world into nothingness. I have to bang my head against some hard door to call myself back to the body.

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Literature is strewn with the wreckage of those who have minded beyond reason the opinion of others.

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How much better is silence; the coffee cup, the table. How much better to sit by myself like the solitary sea-bird that opens its wings on the stake. Let me sit here for ever with bare things, this coffee cup, this knife, this fork, things in themselves, myself being myself.

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Each has his past shut in him like the leaves of a book known to him by heart and his friends can only read the title.

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Blame it or praise it, there is no denying the wild horse in us.

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For it would seem - her case proved it - that we write, not with the fingers, but with the whole person. The nerve which controls the pen winds itself about every fibre of our being, threads the heart, pierces the liver.

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A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.

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All extremes of feeling are allied with madness.

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Women have served all these centuries as looking glasses possessing the magic and delicious power of reflecting the figure of man at twice its natural size.

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The truth is, I often like women. I like their unconventionality. I like their completeness. I like their anonymity.

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