Life is essentially a cheat and its conditions are those of defeat; the redeeming things are not happiness and pleasure but the deeper satisfactions that come out of struggle.

For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affection upon her glowing face; her voice compelled me forward breathlessly as I listened - then the glow faded, each light deserting her with lingering regret, like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk.

I wish I could write. I get these ideas but I never seem to be able to put them in words.

Men she knew'? - she had conceded vaguely to herself that all men who had ever been in love with her were her friends.

We haven’t met for many years, said Daisy, her voice as matter-of-fact as it could ever be. "Five years next November." The automatic quality set us all back at least another minute.

Suddenly she realized that what she was regretting was not the lost past but the lost future, not what had not been but what would never be.

Beware the artist who's an intellectual also. The artist who doesn't fit.