Quotes About Author

Budgie's had a nice lunchtime crowd, but we found a table

And the poem, I think, is only your voice speaking.

Anyone who has the temerity to write about Jane Austen is aware of [two] facts: first, that of all great writers she is the most difficult to catch in the act of greatness; second, that there are twenty-five elderly gentlemen living in the neighbourhood of London who resent any slight upon her genius as if it were an insult to the chastity of their aunts.

Her life was a tissue of vanity and deceit.

Every secret of a writer's soul, every experience of his life, every quality of his mind is written large in his works.

The habit of writing for my eye is good practice. It loosens the ligaments.

I am the foam that sweeps and fills the uttermost rims of the rocks with whiteness; I am also a girl, here in this room.

Venerable are letters, infinitely brave, forlorn, and lost.

All the time she writing the world had continued.

I should never be able to fulfill what is,I understand, the first duty of a lecturer-to hand you after an hour's discourse a nugget of pure truth to wrap up between the pages of your notebooks and keep on the mantelpiece forever.

Sir William said he never spoke of 'madness'; he called it not having a sense of proportion.

Literature had taken possession even of her memories. She was matching him, presumably, with certain characters in the old novels...

And the supreme mystery was simply this: here was one room; there another. Did religion solve that, or love?

Nature, who has played so many queer tricks upon us, making us so unequally of clay and diamonds...

Lord, lord, the snobbery of the English!

Poor little place,' he murmured with a sigh. She heard him. He said the most melancholy things, but she noticed that directly he had said them he always seemed more cheerful than usual. All this phrase-making was a game, she thought, for if she had said half what he said, she would have blown her brains out by now.

She did in her own heart infinitely prefer boobies to clever men who wrote dissertations.

For once the disease of reading has laid hold upon the system it weakens it so that it falls an easy prey to that other scourge which dwells in the ink pot and festers in the quill. The wretch takes to writing.

It is the speed, the hot, molten effect, the lava flow of sentence into sentence that I need.

That a famous library has been cursed by a woman is a matter of complete indifference to a famous library.

The sweetness of this content overflowing runs down the walls of my mind, and liberates understanding.

Oh, yes, dear reader: the essay is alive. There is no reason to despair.

But this question of love... this falling in love with women. Take Sally Seton; her relation in the old days with Sally Seton. Had that not, after all, been love?

It is curious how, at every crisis, some phrase which does not fit insists upon coming to the rescue