The path of sound credence is through the thick forest of skepticism.

A man may be said to love most truly that woman in whose company he can feel drowsy in comfort.

The Russian dramatist is one who, walking through a cemetery, does not see the flowers on the graves. The American dramatist . . . Does not see the graves under the flowers.

The path of sound credence is through the thick forest of skepticism.

A poet, any real poet, is simply an alchemist who transmutes his cynicism regarding human beings into an optimism regarding the moon, the stars, the heavens, and the flowers, to say nothing of Spring, love, and dogs.

A broken heart is a monument to a love that will never die; fulfillment is a monument to a love that is already on its deathbed.

Criticism is the windows and chandeliers of art: it illuminates the enveloping darkness in which art might otherwise rest only vaguely discernible, and perhaps altogether unseen.