I have drunk of the wine of life at last, I have known the thing best worth knowing, I have been warmed through and through, never to grow quite cold again till the end.

Something he knew he had missed: the flower of life. But he thought of it now as a thing so unattainable and improbable that to have repined would have been like despairing because one had not drawn the first prize in a lottery.

It seems stupid to have discovered America only to make it into a copy of another country.

Since the Americans have ceased to have dyspepsia, they have lost the only thing that gave them any expression.

The very good people didn't convince me; I felt they'd never been tempted. But you knew; you understood; you had felt the world outside tugging at one with all its golden hands — and yet you hated the things it asks of one; you hated happiness bought by disloyalty and cruelty and indifference.

To be able to look life in the face: that's worth living in a garret for, isn't it?

Happiness is a work of art. Handle with care.