Everybody who does anything at all does too much.

She was so evidently the victim of the civilization which had produced her, that the links of her bracelet seemed like manacles chaining her to her fate.

In our hurried world too little value is attached to the part of the connoisseur and dilettante.

I was a failure in Boston...because they thought I was too fashionable to be intelligent, and a failure in New York because they were afraid I was too intelligent to be fashionable.

He had to deal all at once with the packed regrets and stifled memories of an inarticulate lifetime.

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

The true felicity of a lover of books is the luxurious turning of page by page, the surrender, not meanly abject, but deliberate and cautious, with your wits about you, as you deliver yourself into the keeping of the book. This I call reading.