Life is ours to be spent, not to be saved.

I should think the American admiration of five-minute tourists has done more to kill the sacredness of old European beauty and aspiration than multitudes of bombs would have done.

Things men have made with wakened hands, and put soft life into are awake through years with transferred touch, and go on glowing for long years. And for this reason, some old things are lovely warm still with the life of forgotten men who made them.

We have buried so much of the delicate magic of life.

Any inhibition must be wrong, since inevitably in the end it causes neurosis and insanity.

If we had reverence for our life, our life would take at once religious form. But as it is, in our filthy irreverence, it remains a disgusting slough, where each one of us goes so thoroughly disguised in dirt that we are all alike and indistinguishab

In the dust where we have buried the silent races and their abominations we have buried so much of the delicate magic of life.