Great Women Writers

Bas Bleu is a team of literary women, so we have a special affinity for women writers of any era. Consider this a one-stop shop for bluestocking trivia, quotes, and little-known correspondence from groundbreaking female authors. Linger for a dash of inspiration, a hint of flair, and a sprinkle of drama—these women did it all!

Fun Facts

When Grammarian Dominique Bouhours died in 1702, her last words were reportedly: “I am about to—or I am going to—die: either expression is used.”

The first novel ever written is attributed to Lady Murasaki in eleventh century Japan. The Tale of Genji is an epic romance, but perhaps more importantly, it’s a study of societal norms.

Marie de France, one of the first known female authors in Europe, turned common tropes on their head by writing about women with agency and men who needed saving.

William Shakespeare may not have had sisters, but he certainly had muses: Mary Sidney Herbert, Countess of Pembroke, Lady Mary Wroth, and Aemilia Bassano Lanyer were all literary women believed to inhabit Shakespeare’s literary and social circles (although experts disagree on what contributions they made to his writing).

Eighteenth-century author Charlotte Lennox brought Shakespeare fame with her book Shakespeare Illustrated and inspired the foundation for the independent female characters in Jane Austen’s Northanger Abbey and Sense and Sensibility.

George Sand (pseudonym for Amandine Dupin) flaunted gender norms by wearing men’s clothes and smoking cigars in order to gain access to museums, libraries, and literary clubs where women weren’t allowed.

As children, the Brontë sisters staged plays, wrote magazines, and created entire worlds with toy soldiers and maps.

It was not their own publications, but rather family friend Elizabeth Gaskell’s biography The Life of Charlotte Brontë, that launched the Brontë sisters’ posthumous fame. The biography omitted details that may have tarnished their reputation, like Charlotte’s possible opium use, Emily’s social isolation, and Anne’s feminist values.

It’s rumored that, when author Harriet Beecher Stowe met President Lincoln, he pronounced, “So you’re the little woman who wrote the book that started this great war!” Her own house had been a station on the Underground Railroad.

As a child, Louisa May Alcott briefly lived on a “Utopian” commune (wherein she and the other women in the family maintained the house and the farm while the men discussed philosophy in the countryside). She wrote about it in a satirical piece called “Transcendental Wild Oats,” published in a New York newspaper in 1873.

Writer Henry James introduced Edith Wharton to her lover, journalist Morton Fullerton (she was married at the time, but eventually divorced to live in France during the first World War).

Virginia Woolf formed Hogarth Press with her husband Leonard Woolf, and together they published their own writing, as well as works by Katherine Mansfield, T. S. Eliot, Sigmund Freud, and E. M. Forster.

Agatha Christie was one of the first Brits to learn how to surf.

Margaret Mitchell won the Pulitzer Prize for Gone With the Wind, defeating William Faulkner’s Absalom, Absalom!

Favorite Quotes

“But always when I was without a book, my soul at once became disturbed, and my thoughts wandered.” -Saint Teresa of Ávila

“All I ask, is the privilege for my masculine part the poet in me…If I must not, because of my sex, have this freedom…I lay down my quill and you shall hear no more of me.” -Aphra Behn

“Who has forbidden women to engage in private and individual studies? Have they not a rational soul as men do?…I have this inclination to study and if it is evil I am not the one who formed me thus—I was born with it and with it I shall die.” -Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz

“I do not wish them [women] to have power over men; but over themselves.” -Mary Wollstonecraft

“I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.” -Virginia Woolf

“Women are the real architects of society.” -Harriet Beecher Stowe

“Sit down and put down everything that comes into your head and then you’re a writer. But an author is one who can judge his own stuff’s worth, without pity, and destroy most of it.” -Collette

“There is something delicious about writing the first words of a story. You never quite know where they’ll take you.” -Beatrix Potter

“With the best that I have in me, I have tried to write more happiness into the world.” -Frances Hodgson Burnett

“I am simply a ‘book drunkard.’ Books have the same irresistible temptation for me that liquor has for its devotee. I cannot withstand them.” -Lucy Maud Montgomery

“I belong to no race or time. I am the eternal feminine with its string of beads.” -Zora Neale Hurston

“The aim of science is to discover and illuminate truth. And that, I take it, is the aim of literature, whether biography or history or fiction; it seems to me, then, that there can be no separate literature of science.” -Rachel Carson

“I am aware of being in a beautiful prison, from which I can only escape by writing.” -Anaïs Nin

“I live with the people I create and it has always made my essential loneliness less keen.” -Carson McCullers

Correspondence Excerpts

November 1839

[To Victor Hugo]

Good-morning, my dear little beloved, my darling little man. You told me so definitely yesterday that my handwriting was hideous, and my scrawl nothing but a horrible maze in which you lose both patience and love, that I hardly dare write to you to-day, and it would take very little to make me cease our correspondence altogether. We must have an explanation on this subject, for it is cruel of you to force me to make myself ridiculous night and morning, simply because I love you and am the saddest and loneliest of women. If my love must be drowned in my ignorance and stupidity, at least do not force me to make the plunge myself.
There was a time when you would not have noticed the ugliness of my writing; you would only have read my meaning and been happy and grateful. Now you laugh, which is shabby and wicked of you. This seems to be the fate of all the Quasimodo of this world, moral and physical; they are jeered at: form is everything, spirit nothing. Even if I could constrain my crabbed scrawl to say, “My soul is beautiful,” you would not be less amused. Therefore, my dear little man, pending the moment when I can join in the laugh against myself, I think it would be as well to suspend these daily writings. Besides, the moment has come when I must turn all my time and energies towards making my position secure. Nothing in this world can turn me from my purpose, for it is to me a question of life and death…
I count upon you to help me, my beloved. I am asking you for more than life—for the moral consummation of our marriage of love. Let me go with you wherever my happiness is threatened, let me be the wife of your mind and heart, if I cannot be yours in law. If I express myself badly, do not scoff, but understand that I have a right to put into words what you yourself have felt, and that I insist upon defending myself against all those women who get at you under pretext of serving you. I will have my turn, for I love you and am jealous.

[Juliette Drouet, his mistress]

January 1845

[To her tutor, Constantin Heger]

…Monsieur, the poor do not need a great deal to live on — they ask only the crumbs of bread which fall from the rich men’s table — but if they are refused these crumbs — they die of hunger — No more do I need a great deal of affection from those I love — I would not know what to do with a whole and complete friendship — I am not accustomed to it — but you showed a little interest in me in days gone by when I was your pupil in Brussels — and I cling to the preservation of this little interest — I cling to it as I would cling on to life.

[Charlotte Brontë]

January 1845

I thank you, dear Mr. Browning, from the bottom of my heart. You meant to give me pleasure by your letter—and even if the object had not been answered, I ought still to thank you. But it is thoroughly answered. Such a letter from such a hand! Sympathy is dear—very dear to me: but the sympathy of a poet, and of such a poet, is the quintessence of sympathy to me! Will you take back my gratitude for it?—agreeing, too, that of all the commerce done in the world, from Tyre to Carthage, the exchange of sympathy for gratitude is the most princely thing!
For the rest you draw me on with your kindness. It is difficult to get rid of people when you once have given them too much pleasure—that is a fact, and we will not stop for the moral of it. What I was going to say—after a little natural hesitation—is, that if ever you emerge without inconvenient effort from your ‘passive state,’ and will tell me of such faults as rise to the surface and strike you as important in my poems, (for of course, I do not think of troubling you with criticism in detail) you will confer a lasting obligation on me, and one which I shall value so much, that I covet it at a distance. I do not pretend to any extraordinary meekness under criticism and it is possible enough that I might not be altogether obedient to yours. But with my high respect for your power in your Art and for your experience as an artist, it would be quite impossible for me to hear a general observation of yours on what appear to you my master-faults, without being the better for it hereafter in some way. I ask for only a sentence or two of general observation—and I do not ask even for that, so as to tease you—but in the humble, low voice, which is so excellent a thing in women—particularly when they go a-begging! The most frequent general criticism I receive, is, I think, upon the style,—‘if I would but change my style’! But that is an objection (isn’t it?) to the writer bodily? Buffon says, and every sincere writer must feel, that ‘Le style c'est l'homme’; a fact, however, scarcely calculated to lessen the objection with certain critics.
Is it indeed true that I was so near to the pleasure and honour of making your acquaintance? and can it be true that you look back upon the lost opportunity with any regret? But—you know—if you had entered the ‘crypt,’ you might have caught cold, or been tired to death, and wished yourself ‘a thousand miles off;’ which would have been worse than travelling them. It is not my interest, however, to put such thoughts in your head about its being ‘all for the best’; and I would rather hope (as I do) that what I lost by one chance I may recover by some future one. Winters shut me up as they do dormouse’s eyes; in the spring, we shall see: and I am so much better that I seem turning round to the outward world again. And in the meantime I have learnt to know your voice, not merely from the poetry but from the kindness in it. Mr. Kenyon often speaks of you—dear Mr. Kenyon!—who most unspeakably, or only speakably with tears in my eyes,—has been my friend and helper, and my book's friend and helper! critic and sympathiser, true friend of all hours! You know him well enough, I think, to understand that I must be grateful to him.
I am writing too much,—and notwithstanding that I am writing too much, I will write of one thing more. I will say that I am your debtor, not only for this cordial letter and for all the pleasure which came with it, but in other ways, and those the highest: and I will say that while I live to follow this divine art of poetry, in proportion to my love for it and my devotion to it, I must be a devout admirer and student of your works. This is in my heart to say to you—and I say it.
And, for the rest, I am proud to remain

Your obliged and faithful

Elizabeth B. Barrett.

May 1861

Dear Miss Alcott,

I fear that you will think me vain to write you and seek counsel without introduction. And vain perhaps in another way—to think you might assist me. I have but a poor few poems and wish to make them known. Two were lately printed here in Springfield, one just this May. I have read your story in the august magazine, and think perchance another lady would be so kind as to offer suggestions to “this little Rose — nobody knows.”

E. Dickinson

The May-Wine
I taste a liquor never brewed —
From Tankards scooped in Pearl —
Not all the Frankfort Berries
Yield such an Alcohol!

Inebriate of air — am I
And Debauchee of Dew —
Reeling — thro’ endless summer days —
From inns of molten Blue —

When “Landlords” turn the drunken Bee
Out of the foxglove’s door —
When Butterflies — renounce their “drams” —
I shall but drink the more!

Till Seraphs swing their snowy Hats —
And Saints — to windows run —
To see the little Tippler
Leaning against the — Sun!

May 1861

Dear Miss Dickinson,

As I have only just begun to sip the wine of fame, after ten long years of fermenting the grapes, I fear I may be the wrong person to be of assistance to you. I suppose the “august magazine” you mention is The Atlantic Monthly, and having placed two stories there in the last year, I do have some satisfaction that I have finally reached a pinnacle.
Having deliberated on your questions, I realize that I may have a bit of advice for a sister writer, if I can know your desires. I suppose you know already that poetry, such as yours, is generally printed anonymously. Does this suit your purpose for “making them known”? I ask this because I have often written anonymously myself as I have had to alter my stories to suit my purchasers. I can write a sentimental tale, a moral story for children, a patriotic poem of a serial where the heroine goes mad and the villain gets entombed alive. I won’t say I’m not proud of my work, but some has been hastily written to suit the market. The stories are lively and tell of conflicts and misunderstandings between real people, not just pirate battles or adventure plots that fill the gazettes lately. I’m practicing my writing for the real work that lies ahead. Though I alter my style, I never lower my principles and my villains will always be deceived, dishonored, ruined or poisoned in the end.
I’ll write anything that sells, but my greatest fun was when the first story was printed and I read it aloud to my favorite audience, my dear family. How they hollered and cried when they found that their little Lu was a published authoress! Does your family rejoice in your talent too? Now I keep it up to pay the bills. How I love to have my scribbling turn into boots, bonnets and briskets and help to keep my family afloat.
Can I ask if you require ready payment, or can go without your just wages? As the money is important to me, I have learned that if the publisher thinks I am a man, I can get more for my stories, so I send them anonymously or with only my initials. I started out years ago getting $5 per story, but get a neat $25 for four pages now. The Atlantic takes a poor fellow’s tales and keeps ‘em years without paying, and as my principal aim is to pay the coal bill and keep my family shod, I often have to forego the honor and send my stories elsewhere.
Poetry is not my line, but I admire Emerson’s most, though the public has crowned Longfellow. Your poem seems sprinkled with fairy dust and reminds me of my first book, “Flower Fables,” which had a very small success. You feminine style would not move Clapp at the Saturday Evening Gazette, as he seems not to understand a woman’s sentiment, having rejected two of my honest stories with a woman’s view. Leslie and his Illustrated Newspaper wants only the most lurid tales, and Elliot at the Flag of Our Union is going in for the military and patriotic, as seems necessary right now.
If you have a book of poetry, perhaps Mr. Briggs who published my “Flower Fables” would be interested. For getting printed in a periodical, the Atlantic is the best and as Mr. Lowell is the editor, your poetry will have an honest critic. If you like, I can send your poem on to him with a recommendation, should he remember my two little offerings which he accepted.
Though I cannot give you more practical help than the offer above, I feel that you and I can provide ballast to each other’s ship as we “sail across the Atlantic.” Forgive me for this long scribble, half advice and half raving. I am mad to know how other women manage their work—how do you write, as I imagine you have the same drudge of housekeeping as the rest of the gentler half of America. I long to know what inspires you, what book do you read & etc.
Write again so I know how you get on.

Very truly yours,

L. M. Alcott

May 1917

My darling [John Middleton Murry],

Do not imagine, because you find these lines in your journal that I have been trespassing.  You know I have not—and where else shall I leave a love letter?  For I long to write you a love-letter tonight.
You are all about me—I seem to breathe you, hear you, feel you in me and of me.
What am I doing here?  You are away.  I have seen you in the train, at the station, driving up, sitting in the lamplight, talking, greeting people, washing your hands…And I am here—in your tent—sitting at your table.
There are some wall-flower petals on the table and a dead match, a blue pencil and a Magdeburgische Zeitung.  I am just as much at home as they.
When dusk came, flowing up the silent garden, lapping against the blind windows, my first and last terror started up.  I was making some coffee in the kitchen.  It was so violent, so dreadful I put down the coffee pot—and simply ran away—ran out of the studio and up the street with my bag under one arm and a block of writing paper and a pen under the other.  I felt that if I could get here and find Mrs. F I should be safe.
I found her and I lighted your gas, wound up your clock, drew your curtains and embraced your black overcoat before I sat down, frightened no longer.  Do not be angry with me, Bogey.  Ca a ete plus fort que moi…That is why I am here.
When you came to tea this afternoon you took a brioche, broke it in half and padded the inside doughy bit with two fingers.  You always do that with a bun or roll or a piece of bread.  It is your way—your head a little on one side the while.
When you opened your suitcase, I saw your old Feltie and a French book and a comb all higgledy-piggedly.  ‘Tig, Ive only got 3 handkerchiefs.’ Why should that memory be so sweet to me?…
Last night, there was a moment before you got into bed.  You stood, quite naked, bending forward a little, talking.  It was only for an instant.  I saw you—I loved you so, loved your body with such tenderness.  Ah, my dear!
And I am not thinking of passion.  No, of that other thing that makes me feel that every inch of you is so precious to me—your soft shoulders—your creamy warm skin, your ears cold like shells are cold—your long legs and your feet that I love to clasp with my feet—the feeling of your belly—and your thin young back.  Just below that bone that sticks out at the back of your neck you have a little mole.
It is partly because we are young that I feel this tenderness.  I love your mouth.  I could not bear that it should be touched even by a cold wind if I were the Lord.
We two, you know, have everything before us, and we shall do very great things.  I have perfect faith in us, and so perfect is my love for you that I am, as it were, still, silent to my very soul.
I want nobody but you for my lover and my friend and to nobody but you shall I be faithful.

I am yours forever.

Tig. [Katherine Mansfield]

December 1928

Dear Mr Strachey,

As you were not present at London Sessions on Friday last, December 14th, to hear how the Attorney General found it necessary to open his case for the prosecution of the publisher of THE WELL OF LONELINESS by narrating the entire story of the book, and detailing the names, functions and sections of each separate character, to the bench of magistrates who presumedly should have read the book before sitting in judgement upon it. you may find the enclosed letter form the Public Prosecutor Sir Archibald Bodkin interesting as throwing light upon the Government’s legal (?) procedure in connection with the preparation of their case.

Yours sincerely,

Radclyffe Hall

PS As you may know, the Chairman of the Court mentioned in Bodkin’s letter is Sir Robert Wallace, whose judgement of my book you will have seen in the papers.