There are some people whom we envy not because they are rich or handsome or successful, although they may be all or any of these, but because everything they are or do seems to be all of a piece, so that even if they wanted to they could not be or do otherwise.

Ports are necessities, like postage stamps or soap, but they seldom seem to care what impressions they make.

The art of losing isn't hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Why shouldn't we, so generally addicted to the gigantic, at last have some small works of art, some short poems, short pieces of music [...], some intimate, low-voiced, and delicate things in our mostly huge and roaring, glaring world?

The pigs stuck out their little feet and snored.

Oh, must we dream our dreams and have them, too?

I was made at right angles to the world and I see it so. I can only see it so.