“I am a writer and I want to write.”

“True enough,” said Mrs. Copperfield, bringing her fist down on the table and looking very mean. “I have gone to pieces, which is a thing I’ve wanted to do for years. I know I am as guilty as I can be, but I have my happiness, which I guard like a wolf, and I have authority now and a certain amount of daring, which, if you remember correctly, I never had before.”

“I am so wily and feminine that I could live by your side for a lifetime and deceive you afresh each day.”

“Houses! I hate houses. I like public places. Houses break your heart.”

“This did not in any way alter her intention of accomplishing her mission; on the contrary; it seemed to her all the more desperately important now that she was almost certain, in her innermost heart, that her trip was a failure. Her attitude was not an astonishing one, since like many others she conceived of her life as separate from herself; the road was laid out always a little ahead of her by scared hands, and she walked down it without a question. This road, which was her life, would go on existing after her death, even as her death existed while she still lived.”

“I want to be part of your story. I want your story to rearrange the symbols in my mind. I want your voice to be my voice.”

“I am not at all in a humor for writing; I must write on till I am.”