The history of men's opposition to women's emancipation is more interesting perhaps than the story of that emancipation itself.
It is the nature of the artist to mind excessively what is said about him. Literature is strewn with the wreckage of men who have minded beyond reason the opinions of others.
You send a boy to school in order to make friends of the right sort.
Someone has to die in order that the rest of us should value life more.
To enjoy freedom we have to control ourselves.
This is not writing at all. Indeed, I could say that Shakespeare surpasses literature altogether, if I knew what I meant.
My own brain is to me the most unaccountable of machinery - always buzzing, humming, soaring roaring diving, and then buried in mud. And why? What's this passion for?
Life is not a series of gig lamps symmetrically arranged; life is a luminous halo, a semi-transparent envelope surrounding us from the beginning of consciousness to the end.
Language is wine upon the lips.
This is an important book, the critic assumes, because it deals with war. This is an insignificant book because it deals with the feelings of women in a drawing-room.
Every secret of a writer's soul, every experience of his life, every quality of his mind is written large in his works.
The truth is, I often like women. I like their unconventionality. I like their completeness. I like their anonymity.
As a woman, I have no country. As a woman my country is the world.
Sleep, that deplorable curtailment of the joy of life.
One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well.
It seems as if an age of genius must be succeeded by an age of endeavour; riot and extravagance by cleanliness and hard work.
Yet, it is true, poetry is delicious; the best prose is that which is most full of poetry.
Humour is the first of the gifts to perish in a foreign tongue.
The connection between dress and war is not far to seek; your finest clothes are those you wear as soldiers.
One likes people much better when they're battered down by a prodigious siege of misfortune than when they triumph.
I can only note that the past is beautiful because one never realises an emotion at the time. It expands later, and thus we don't have complete emotions about the present, only about the past.
Masterpieces are not single and solitary births; they are the outcome of many years of thinking in common, of thinking by the body of the people, so that the experience of the mass is behind the single voice.
Who shall measure the heat and violence of the poet's heart when caught and tangled in a woman's body?
Where the Mind is biggest, the Heart, the Senses, Magnanimity, Charity, Tolerance, Kindliness, and the rest of them scarcely have room to breathe.
On the outskirts of every agony sits some observant fellow who points.