A woman has to live her life, or live to repent not having lived it.
One sheds ones sickness in books- repeats and presents again ones emotions, to be master of them.
We are so overwhelmed with quantities of books, that we hardly realize any more that a book can be valuable, valuable like a jewel, or a lovely picture, into which you can look deeper and deeper and get a more profound experience very time. It is far, far better to read one book six times, at intervals, than to read six several books.
Time went on. Whatever happened, nothing happened, because she was so beautifully out of contact . . . Time went on as the clock does, half-past eight instead of half-past seven.
My God, these folks don't know how to love -- that's why they love so easily.
Sometimes life takes hold of one, carries the body along, accomplishes one's history, and yet is not real, but leaves oneself as it were slurred over.