I don't believe that people would ever fall in love or want to be married if they hadn't been told about it. It's like abroad: no one would want to go there if they hadn't been told it existed.

Every Englishman abroad, until it is proved to the contrary, likes to consider himself a traveller and not a tourist.

We are American at puberty. We die French.

Perhaps all our loves are merely hints and symbols; vagabond-language scrawled on gate-posts and paving-stones along the weary road that others have tramped before us; perhaps you and I are types and this sadness which sometimes falls between us springs from disappointment in our search, each straining through and beyond the other, snatching a glimpse now and then of the shadow which turns the corner always a pace or two ahead of us.

Only when one has lost all curiosity about the future has one reached the age to write an autobiography.

No one could really hate a saint, could they? They can't really hate God either. When they want to Hate Him and His saints they have to find something like themselves and pretends it's God and hate that.

The only thing that it is advisable to know in any language is the numerals; and even there, you can do a lot with the fingers.