The nice thing about really intelligent people is that when you talk with them they make you feel intelligent too.

Eternally, woman spills herself away in driblets to the thirsty, seldom being allowed the time, the quiet, the peace, to let the pitcher fill up to the brim.

The loneliness you get by the sea is personal and alive. It doesn't subdue you and make you feel abject. It's stimulating loneliness.

When the heart is flooded with love there is no room in it for fear, for doubt, for hesitation.

Nothing feeds the center of being so much as creative work.

Why is it that you can sometimes feel the reality of people more keenly through a letter than face to face?

For the most part, we, who could choose simplicity, choose complication.