After all, one knows one’s weak points so well, that it’s rather bewildering to have the critics overlook them and invent others.
I had the story, bit by bit, from various people, and, as generally happens in such cases, each time it was a different story.
In our hurried world too little value is attached to the part of the connoisseur and dilettante.
I want to put my hand out and touch you. I want to do for you and care for you. I want to be there when you’re sick and when you’re lonesome.
Half the trouble in life is caused by pretending there isn’t any.
Silence may be as variously shaded as speech.
Another unsettling element in modern art is that common symptom of immaturity, the dread of doing what has been done before.
The only way not to think about money is to have a great deal of it.
The only thing to do is to hug one’s friends tight and do one’s job.
In any really good subject, one has only to probe deep enough to come to tears.
It frightened him to think what must have gone to the making of her eyes.
Life has a way of overgrowing its achievements as well as its ruins.
Beware of monotony; it’s the mother of all the deadly sins.
We live in our own souls as in an unmapped region, a few acres of which we have cleared for our habitation; while of the nature of those nearest us we know but the boundaries that march with ours.
We ought to be opening a bottle of wine!
To visit Morocco is still like turning the pages of some illuminated Persian manuscript all embroidered with bright shapes and subtle lines.
I wonder, among all the tangles of this mortal coil, which one contains tighter knots to undo, and consequently suggests more tugging, and pain, and diversified elements of misery, than the marriage tie.
Make ones center of life inside ones self, not selfishly or excludingly, but with a kind of unassailable serenity.
Yes, one gets over things. But there are certain memories one can’t bit on.
My last page is always latent in my first; but the intervening windings of the way become clear only as I write.