Fiction is like a spider's web, attached ever so lightly perhaps, but still attached to life at all four corners. Often the attachment is scarcely perceptible; Shakespeare's plays, for instance, seem to hang there complete by themselves. But when the web is pulled askew, hooked up at the edge, torn in the middle, one remembers that these webs are not spun in midair by incorporeal creatures, but are the work of suffering human beings, and are attached to the grossly material things, like health and money and the houses we live in. A Room of One's Own

The world has raised its whip; where will it descend? Mrs. Dalloway

That's the nature of women ... not to love when we love them, and to love when we love them not. Don Quixote

Don’t give in to your fears. If you do, you won’t be able to talk to your heart The Alchemist