After all, what's a life, anyway? We're born, we live a little while, we die.

To perceive Christmas through its wrappings becomes more difficult with every year.

A man's liberal and conservative phases seem to follow each other in a succession of waves from the time he is born. Children are radicals. Youths are conservatives, with a dash of criminal negligence. Men in their prime are liberals (as long as their digestion keeps pace with their intellect). The middle aged run to shelter: they insure their life, draft a will, accumulate mementos and occasional tables, and hope for security. And then comes old age, which repeats childhood - a time full of humors and sadness, but often full of courage and even prophecy.

A poem compresses much in a small space and adds music, thus heightening its meaning.

Life's accumulation is more discouraging than life itself, when stirred up.

A writer is like a bean plant - he has his little day, and then gets stringy.

One of the most time-consuming things is to have an enemy.