Underneath my stiffened gown Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin, A basin in the midst of hedges grown So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding, But she guesses he is near, And the sliding of the water Seems the stroking of a dear Hand upon her.

Don’t ask a writer what he’s working on. It’s like asking someone with cancer on the progress of his disease.

Happiness: We rarely feel it. I would buy it, beg it, steal it, Pay in coins of dripping blood For this one transcendent good.

All books are either dreams or swords, you can cut, or you can drug, with words.

On the neck of the young man sparkles no gem so gracious as enterprise. Youth condemns; maturity condones.

I should like to bring a case to trial: Prosperity versus Beauty, Cash registers teetering in a balance against the comfort of the soul.

Happiness, to some, is elation; to others it is mere stagnation.