Fate is not an eagle, it creeps like a rat.

Habit is not mere subjugation, it is a tender tie; when one remembers habit it seems to have been happiness.

Everything is very quiet, the streets are never crowded, and the people one dislikes are out of town.

Every love has a poetic relevance of its own; each love brings to light only what to it is relevant. Outside lies the junk-yard of what does not matter.

Autumn arrives in early morning, but spring at the close of a winter day.

The child lives in the book; but just as much the book lives in the child.

Convention was our safeguard: could one have stronger?