Remember, love is all a woman has to give, but it is the only thing which God permits us to carry beyond the grave.

Assure a man that he has a soul and then frighten him with old wives' tales as to what is to become of him afterward, and you have hooked a fish, a mental slave.

I believe in the compelling power of love. I do not understand it. I believe it to be the most fragrant blossom of all this thorny existence.

Life is a God-damned, stinking, treacherous game and nine hundred and ninety-nine men out of a thousand are bastards.

How true it is that words are but the vague shadows of the volumes we mean.

Let no one underestimate the need of pity. We live in a stony universe whose hard, brilliant forces rage fiercely.

In order to have wisdom we must have ignorance.

Life is made for the strong. There is no mercy in it for the weak– none...Such is the tragedy of desire.

Love is the only thing you can really give in all this world. When you give love, you give everything.

Art is the stored honey of the human soul, gathered on wings of misery and travail.

Our civilization is still in a middle stage, scarcely beast, in that it is no longer wholly guided by instinct; scarcely human, in that it is not yet wholly guided by reason.

Confidence is armor you cannot buy.

My advantage as a woman and a human being has been in having a mother who believed strongly in women's education. She was an early undergraduate at Oxford, and her own mother was a doctor.

A strong, positive self-image is the best possible preparation for success.

One leader, one people, signifies one master and millions of slaves.

No man has ever been able to describe God fully. The same holds true of ahimsa.

Three weeks hadn't changed Cop Central. The coffee was still poisonous, the noise abominable, and the view out of her stingy window was still miserable. She was thrilled to be back.

With respect to physical existence, one needs little, and to the degree that one needs less, the more perfect one is.

Our collective freedom... depends on our ability to defend the rights of others.

The most common human act that writing a novel resembles is lying. The working novelist lies daily, very complexly, and at great length.

Life will defend itself no matter how small it is.