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

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

In the rotation of crops there was a recognized season for wild oats; but they were not sown more than once.

They belonged to that vast group of human automata who go through life without neglecting to perform a single one of the gestures executed by the surrounding puppets.

Dialogue in fiction should be reserved for the culminating moments and regarded as the spray into which the great wave of narrative breaks in curving towards the watcher on the shore.

Don't they always go from bad to worse? There's no turning back--your old self rejects you, and shuts you out. ~Lilly Bart

Make ones center of life inside ones self, not selfishly or excludingly, but with a kind of unassailable serenity.