I have learned to look upon each little hindrance as a jest and each great one as a foreshadowing of victory.
Trees have as much individuality as human beings. Not even two spruces are alike. There is always some kink or curve or bend of bough to single each one out from its fellows.
I wonder why people so commonly suppose that if two individuals are both writers they must therefore be hugely congenial.
You’ll never write anything that really satisfies you though it may satisfy other people.
Dramatic things always have a bitterness for some one.
Blessings be the inventor of the alphabet, pen and printing press! Life would be – to me in all events – a terrible thing without books.
A child that has a quick temper, just blaze up and cool down, ain’t never likely to be sly or deceitful.
I love pretty things; and I hate to look in the glass and see something that isn’t pretty. It makes me feel so sorrowful – just as I feel when I look at any ugly thing. I pity it because it isn’t beautiful.
I don’t like green Christmases. They’re not green – they’re just nasty faded browns and grays.
When I make up my mind to do a thing it stays made up.
Doesn’t matter what a person’s name is as long as he behaves himself.
I’d rather look ridiculous when everybody else does than plain and sensible all by myself.
But the worst of imagining things is that the time comes when you have to stop and that hurts.
To love is easy and therefore common – but to understand – how rare it is!
No use in taking a cat’s opinion of a dog.
The ghosts of things that never happened are worse than the ghosts of things that did.
Outgrowing things we love is never a pleasant process.
Some nights are like honey – and some like wine – and some like wormwood.
Nothing ever seems impossible in spring, you know.
It is a strange thing to read a letter after the writer is dead – a bitter-sweet thing, in which pain and comfort are strangely mingled.