It is almost as stupid to let your clothes betray that you know you are ugly as to have them proclaim that you think you are beautiful.

She was very near hating him now; yet the sound of his voice, the way the light fell on his thin, dark hair, the way he sat and moved and wore his clothes—she was conscious that even these trivial things were inwoven with her deepest life.

The real alchemy consists in being able to turn gold back again into something else; and that's the secret that most of your friends have lost.

As the pain that can be told is but half a pain, so the pity that questions has little healing in its touch.

Another unsettling element in modern art is that common symptom of immaturity, the dread of doing what has been done before.

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

Everything about her was warm and soft and scented; even the stains of her grief became her as raindrops do the beaten rose.