The Women Rest Their Tired Half-healed Hearts;

I Cannot Believe That The Inscrutable Universe Turns On An Axis Of Suffering; Surely The Strange Beauty Of The World Must Somewhere Rest On Pure Joy!

Poetry Is Often Generations In Advance Of The Thought Of Its Time.

I Don't Like Quintessential Certitude.

But Is There Any Reason To Believe That A Woman's Spiritual Fibre Is Less Sturdy Than A Man's? Is It Not Possible For A Woman To Come To Terms With Herself If Not With The World; To Withdraw More And More, As Time Goes On, Her Own Personality From Her Productions; To Stop Childish Fears Of Death And Eschew Charming Rebellions Against Facts?

The Intellectual Is A Middle-class Product; If He Is Not Born Into The Class He Must Soon Insert Himself Into It, In Order To Exist. He Is The Fine Nervous Flower Of The Bourgeoisie.