There is an eagle in me that wants to soar, and there is a hippopotamus in me that wants to wallow in the mud.
I won’t take my religion from any man who never works except with his mouth.
I have become infected, now that I see how beautifully a book is coming out of all this.
When I was writing pretty poor poetry, this girl with midnight black hair told me to go on.
My room for books and study or for sitting and thinking about nothing in particular to see what would happen was at the end of a hall.
I had taken a course in Ethics. I read a thick textbook, heard the class discussions and came out of it saying I hadn’t learned a thing I didn’t know before about morals and what is right or wrong in human conduct.
Let the gentle bush dig its root deep and spread upward to split one boulder.
I have always felt that a woman has the right to treat the subject of her age with ambiguity until, perhaps, she passes into the realm of over ninety. Then it is better she be candid with herself and with the world.
I learned you can’t trust the judgment of good friends.
We read Robert Browning’s poetry. Here we needed no guidance from the professor: the poems themselves were enough.