Time to plant tears, says the almanac. The grandmother sings to the marvelous stove and the child draws another inscrutable house.

Insomnia" perhaps she's a daytime sleeper.

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?

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.

Democracy in the contemporary world demands, among other things, an educated and informed people.

I am sorry for people who can't write letters. But I suspect also that you and I ... love to write them because it's kind of like working without really doing it.

What childishness is it that while there's breath of life in our bodies, we are determined to rush to see the sun the other way around?