Here was a new generation, shouting the old cries, learning the old creeds, through a revery of long days and nights; destined finally to go out into that dirty gray turmoil to follow love and pride; a new generation dedicated more than the last to the fear of poverty and the worship of success; grown up to find all Gods dead, all wars fought, all faiths in man shaken.

You are the finest, loveliest, tenderest, and most beautiful person I have ever known—and even that is an understatement.

It takes a genius to whine appealingly.

Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.

Laughter is easier minute by minute, spilled with prodigality, tipped out at a cheerful word.

I carry the place around the world in my heart but sometimes I try to shake it off in my dreams

You’re just the romantic age,” she continued- “fifty. Twenty-five is too worldly wise; thirty is apt to be pale from overwork; forty is the age of long stories that take a whole cigar to tell; sixty is- oh, sixty is too near seventy; but fifty is the mellow age. I love fifty.” - Hildegarde