If every novelist could be strangled and thrown into the sea we should have some chance of reforming women.

The girl's nature was corrupted with sentimentality, like that of all but every woman who is intelligent enough to read what is called the best fiction, but not intelligent enough to understand its vice.

Love--love--love; a sickening sameness of vulgarity.

What is more vulgar than the ideal of novelists?
They won't represent the actual world; it would be too dull for their readers.

In real life, how many men and women _fall in love_?
Not one in every ten thousand, I am convinced.