I believe I know the only cure, which is to make one’s center of life inside of one’s self, not selfishly or excludingly, but with a kind of unassailable serenity—to decorate one’s inner house so richly that one is content there, glad to welcome anyone who wants to come and stay, but happy all the same when one is inevitably alone.

Life is always either; a tight -rope or a feather-bed . — Give me the tightrope.

Some things are best mended by a break.

One cares so little for the style in which one's praises are written.

Life's just a perpetual piecing together of broken bits.

In the summer New York was the only place in which one could escape from New Yorkers.

Almost everybody in the neighborhood had troubles, frankly localized and specified; but only the chosen had complications. To have them was in itself a distinction, though it was also, in most cases, a death warrant. People struggled on for years wit