The telephone, which interrupts the most serious conversations and cuts short the most weighty observations, has a romance of its own.
The beautiful seems right by force of beauty, and the feeble wrong because of weakness.
Rigid, the skeleton of habit alone upholds the human frame.
If we help an educated man's daughter to go to Cambridge are we not forcing her to think not about education but about war? - not how she can learn, but how she can fight in order that she might win the same advantages as her brothers?
Odd how the creative power at once brings the whole universe to order.
A woman must have money and a room of her own.
A masterpiece is something said once and for all, stated, finished, so that it's there complete in the mind, if only at the back.
Really I don't like human nature unless all candied over with art.
There can be no two opinions as to what a highbrow is. He is the man or woman of thoroughbred intelligence who rides his mind at a gallop across country in pursuit of an idea.
You send a boy to school in order to make friends - the right sort.
Women have served all these centuries as looking glasses possessing the power of reflecting the figure of man at twice its natural size.
Nothing has really happened until it has been recorded.
There is much to support the view that it is clothes that wear us, and not we, them; we may make them take the mould of arm or breast, but they mould our hearts, our brains, our tongues to their liking.
The poet gives us his essence, but prose takes the mold of the body and mind.
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.
If one could be friendly with women, what a pleasure - the relationship so secret and private compared with relations with men. Why not write about it truthfully?
The beauty of the world, which is so soon to perish, has two edges, one of laughter, one of anguish, cutting the heart asunder.
It's not catastrophes, murders, deaths, diseases, that age and kill us; it's the way people look and laugh, and run up the steps of omnibuses.
If you do not tell the truth about yourself you cannot tell it about other people.
For what Harley Street specialist has time to understand the body, let alone the mind or both in combination, when he is a slave to thirteen thousand a year?
Each has his past shut in him like the leaves of a book known to him by his heart, and his friends can only read the title.
Why are women... so much more interesting to men than men are to women?
Once conform, once do what other people do because they do it, and a lethargy steals over all the finer nerves and faculties of the soul. She becomes all outer show and inward emptiness; dull, callous, and indifferent.
We are nauseated by the sight of trivial personalities decomposing in the eternity of print.
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.