She had storms all her life, but she died peacefully.

She felt about a love set as a painter does about his masterpiece; each ace serve was a form of brushwork to her, and her fantastically accurate shot-placing was certainly a study in composition.

She was built for crowds. She has never come any closer to life than the dinner table.

By jove, no wonder women don't love war nor understand it, nor can operate in it as a rule; it takes a man to suffer what other men have invented . . .

The older women were Sunbeams and I guess we were Cherubs or Lambs, but our mothers were Nightingales.

Isadore [Duncan], who had an un-American genius for art, for organizing love, maternity, politics and pedagogy on a great personal scale, had also an un-American genius for grandeur.