The present flowed by them like a stream. The tree rustled. It had made music before they were born, and would continue after their deaths, but its song was of the moment. The moment had passed. The tree rustled again. Their senses were sharpened, and they seemed to apprehend life. Life passed. The tree rustled again.

For our vanity is such that we hold our own characters immutable, and we are slow to acknowledge that they have changed, even for the better.

A critic has no right to the narrowness which is the frequent prerogative of the creative artist.

Give, do not lend; after death who will thank you?

Growing old is an emotion which comes over us at almost any age; I had it myself between the ages of 25 and 30.

Surely the only sound foundation for a civilization is a sound state of mind.

My conviction gains infinitely the moment another soul will believe in it.