...It struck her, this was tragedy-- not palls, dust, and the shroud; but children coerced, their spirits subdued.

Writing is like sex. First you do it for love, then you do it for your friends, and then you do it for money.

The most important thing is not to think very much about oneself. To investigate candidly the charge; but not fussily, not very anxiously. On no account to retaliate by going to the other extreme -- thinking too much.

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

The man who is aware of himself is henceforward independent; and he is never bored, and life is only too short, and he is steeped through and through with a profound yet temperate happiness.

It flattered her, where she was most susceptible of flattery, to think how, wound about in their hearts, however long they lived she would be woven...