Is there nowhere in an American house where one may be by one's self?

We live in our own souls as in an unmapped region, a few acres of which we have cleared for our habitation; while of the nature of those nearest us we know but the boundaries that march with ours.

Who's 'they'? Why don't you all get together and be 'they' yourselves?

To your generation, I must represent the literary equivalent of tufted furniture and gas chandeliers.

Beauty (was)a gift which, in the eyes of New York, justified every success, and excused a certain number of failings.

I swear I only want to hear about you, to know what you've been doing. It's a hundred years since we've met-it may be another hundred before we meet again.

Life has a way of overgrowing its achievements as well as its ruins.