In all the arts abundance seems to be one of the surest signs of vocation.

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

It's you who are telling me; opening my eyes to things I'd looked at so long that I'd ceased to see them.

My first few weeks in America are always miserable, because the tastes I am cursed with are all of a kind that cannot be gratified here, and I am not enough in sympathy with our gross public to make up for the lack on the aesthetic side. One's friends are delightful; but we are none of us Americans, we don't think or feel as the Americans do, we are the wretched exotics produced in a European glass-house, the most displaced and useless class on earth!

Ah, good conversation - there's nothing like it, is there? The air of ideas is the only air worth breathing.

I think I like 'em better like that...divinely dull...just the quiet bearers of their own beauty, like the priestesses in a Panathenaic procession.

Life is either always a tight-rope or a featherbed. Give me a tight-rope.