One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well.

Love, the poet said, is woman's whole existence.

Just in case you ever foolishly forget; I'm never not thinking of you.

To love makes one solitary.

I was thinking today of my greatest happiness, a walk along a cliff by the sea, and you at the end of it.

I begin to long for some little language such as lovers use, broken words, inarticulate words, like the shuffling of feet on pavement.

What does the brain matter compared with the heart?

Septimus has been working too hard" - that was all she could say to her own mother. To love makes one solitary, she thought.

Beauty had this penalty—it came too readily, came too completely. It stilled life—froze it. One forgot the little agitations; the flush, the pallor, some queer distortion, some light or shadow, which made the face unrecognisable for a moment and yet added a quality one saw for ever after. It was simpler to smooth that all out under the cover of beauty.