She wanted something to happen - something, anything: she did not know what.

The voice of the sea speaks to the soul.

Perhaps it is better to wake up after all, even to suffer, rather than to remain a dupe to illusions all one's life.

The voice of the sea is seductive, never ceasing, whispering, clamoring, murmuring, inviting the soul to wander in abysses of solitude.

The bird that would soar above the level plain of tradition and prejudice must have strong wings. It is a sad spectacle to see the weaklings bruised, exhausted, fluttering back to earth.

But whatever came, she had resolved never again to belong to another than herself.

She was becoming herself and daily casting aside that fictitious self which we assume like a garment with which to appear before the world.

The artist must possess the courageous soul that dares and defies

Even as a child she had lived her own small life within herself. At a very early period she had apprehended instinctively the dual life - that outward existence which conforms, the inward life which questions.

The bird that would soar above the level plain of tradition and prejudice must have strong wings.

The delicious breath of rain was in the air.

She missed him the days when some pretext served to take him away from her, just as one misses the sun on a cloudy day without having thought much about the sun when it was shining.

The past was nothing to her; offered no lesson which she was willing to heed. The future was a mystery which she never attempted to penetrate. The present alone was significant.

We shall be everything to each other. Nothing else shall be of any consequence.

A certain light was beginning to dawn dimly within her,—the light which, showing the way, forbids it.

There was a dull pang of regret because it was not the kiss of love which had inflamed her, because it was not love which had held this cup of life to her lips.

Goodbye -- Because I love you.

At a very early period she had apprehended the instinctively the dual life - that outward existence which conforms, the inward life which questions.

There was no despondency when she fell asleep that night; nor was there hope when she awoke in the morning.

The city atmosphere certainly has improved her. Some way she doesn't seem like the same woman.

She's got some sort of notion in her head concerning the eternal rights of women.

One who awakens gradually out of a dream, a delicious, grotesque, impossible dream, to feel again the realities pressing into her soul

When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease - of the joy that kills.

Does he write to you? Never a line. Does he send you a message? Never a word. It is because he loves you, poor fool, and is trying to forget you, since you are not free to listen to him or to belong to him.

To be an artist includes much; one must possess many gift -absolute gifts- which have not been acquired by one's effort. And, moreover, to succeed, the artist must possess the courageous soul.

And moreover, to succeed, the artist must possess the courageous soul . . . the brave soul. The soul that dares and defies.

I don't mind walking. I always feel so sorry for women who don't like to walk; they miss so much--so many rare little glimpses of life; and we women learn so little of life on the whole.

Who can tell what metals the gods use in forging the subtle bond which we call sympathy, which we might as well call love.

She had all her life long been accustomed to harbor thoughts and emotions which never voiced themselves.

There are some people who leave impressions not so lasting as the imprint of an oar upon the water.

But the beginning of things, of a world especially, is necessarily vague, tangled, chaotic, and exceedingly disturbing. How few of us ever emerge from such beginning! How many souls perish in its tumult!

I would give up the unessential; I would give my money, I would give my life for my children; but I wouldn't give myself.

Well, for instance, when I left her today, she put her arms around me and felt my shoulder blades, to see if my wings were strong, she said.

To succeed, the artist much possess the courageous soul.

She was flushed and felt intoxicated with the sound of her own voice and the unaccustomed taste of candor. It muddled her like wine, or like a first breath of freedom.

She reminded him of some beautiful, sleek animal waking up in the sun.

He could see plainly that she was not herself. That is, he could not see that she was becoming herself [...].

The stillest hour of the night had come, the hour before dawn, when the world seems to hold its breath. The moon hung low, and had turned from silver to copper in the sleeping sky.

But she saw beyond that bitter moment a long procession of years to come that would belong to her absolutely.

She was just having a good cry all to herself.

She felt that her speech was voicing the incoherency her thoughts, and stopped abruptly.

I hope you won't completely forget me.

Do you suppose a woman knows why she loves? Does she select?

The voice of the sea is seductive, never ceasing, whispering, clamoring, murmuring, inviting the soul to wander for a spell in abysses of solitude; to lose itself in mazes of inward contemplation.

Perhaps it is better to wake up after all, even to suffer, rather than to remain a dupe to illusions all one’s life.

But she laughed and looked at him with eyes that at once gave him courage to wait and made it torture to wait.

I love you, only you; no one but you. It was you who awoke me last summer out of a life-long, stupid dream.

The flowers were like new acquaintances; she approached them in a familiar spirit, and made herself at home among them.

The heart jealous of the soul!

She says queer things sometimes in a bantering way that you don’t notice at the time and you find yourself thinking about afterward.