There is no mistaking a real book when one meets it. It is like falling in love, and like that colossal adventure it is an experience of great social import. Even as the tranced swain, the booklover yearns to tell others of his bliss. He writes letters about it, adds it to the postscript of all manner of communications, intrudes it into telephone messages, and insists on his friends writing down the title of the find. Like the simple-hearted betrothed, once certain of his conquest

Friendships do not grow up in any carefully tended and contemplated fashion.... They begin haphazard.

Read, every day, something no one else is reading. Think, every day, something no one else is thinking.

The world, in its sheer exuberance of kindness, will try to bury the poet with warm and lovely human trivialities. It will even ask him to autograph books.

The bicycle, the bicycle surely, should always be the vehicle of novelists and poets.

Fifty percent of the world are women, yet they always seem a novelty.

Beauty is ever to the lonely mind a shadow fleeting; she is never plain. She is a visitor who leaves behind the gift of grief, the souvenir of pain.