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?

I've never written the things I'd like to write that I've admired all my life. Maybe one never does.

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

It was cold and windy, scarcely the day to take a walk on that long beach Everything was withdrawn as far as possible, indrawn: the tide far out, the ocean shrunken, seabirds in ones or twos. The rackety, icy, offshore wind numbed our faces on one side; disrupted the formation of a lone flight of Canada geese; and blew back the low, inaudible rollers in upright, steely mist.

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.

The whole shadow of Man is only as big as his hat.

Someone loves us all.