Everybody who does anything at all does too much.

In every heart there should be one grief that is like a well in the desert.

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

The desire for symmetry, for balance, for rhythm in form as well as in sound, is one of the most inveterate of human instincts.

The American landscape has no foreground and the American mind no background.

My last page is always latent in my first; but the intervening windings of the way become clear only as I write.

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