It would be curious to discover who it is to whom one writes in a diary. Possibly to some mysterious personification of one's own identity.

If I ever felt inclined to be timid as I was going into a room full of people, I would say to myself, 'You're the cleverest member of one of the cleverest families in the cleverest class of the cleverest nation. . . why should you be frightened?'

Religion is love; in no case is it logic

So much perfection argues rottenness somewhere.

. . . if I had been a man, self-respect, family pressure and the public opinion of my class would have pushed me into a money-making profession; as a mere woman I could carve out a career of disinterested research.

Work is the best of narcotics, providing the patient be strong enough to take it. I dread idleness as if it were Hell.