Experience isn't interesting until it begins to repeat itself. In fact, till it does that, it hardly is experience.

It is not our exalted feelings, it is our sentiments that build the necessary home.

Ghosts, we hope, may be always with us - that is, never too far out of the reach of fancy. On the whole, it would seem they adapt themselves well, perhaps better than we do, to changing world conditions - they enlarge their domain, shift their hold on our nerves, and, dispossessed of one habitat, set up house in another. The universal battiness of our century looks like providing them with a propitious climate.

After inside upheavals, it is important to fix on imperturbable things. Their imperturbableness, their air that nothing has happened renews our guarantee.

To the sun Rome owes its underlying glow, and its air called golden - to me, more the yellow of white wine; like wine it raises agreeability to poetry.

nothing is more restful than conformity.

without fiction, either life would be insufficient or the winds from the north would blow too cold.