... the thwarting of the instinct to love is the root of all sorrow and not sex only but divinity itself is insulted when it is repressed.

One life is an absurdly small allowance.

The true fruit of travel is perhaps the feeling of being nearly everywhere at home.

Pain and fear and hunger are effects of causes which can be foreseen and known: but sorrow is a debt which someone else makes for us.

One can only really travel if one lets oneself go and takes what every place brings without trying to turn it into a healthy private pattern of one's own and I suppose that is the difference between travel and tourism.

Christmas... is not an external event at all, but a piece of one's home that one carries in one's heart.

words are but drops pressed out of the lives of those who lived them.