If God could tell the story of the Universe, the Universe would become fictitious.

I think you’re beautiful, the only beautiful person I’ve ever seen. I love your voice and everything to do with you, down to your clothes or the room you are sitting in. I adore you.

Then she lay on her back and gazed at the cloudless sky. Mr. Beebe, whose opinion of her rose daily, whispered to his niece that that was the proper way to behave if any little thing went wrong.

Words deserted him immediately. He could only speak when he was not asked to.

There are moments when the inner life actually 'pays,' when years of self-scrutiny, conducted for no ulterior motive, are suddenly of practical use.

The sadness of the incomplete, the sadness that is often Life, but should never be Art.

Hardship is vanishing, but so is style, and the two are more closely connected than the present generation supposes.