A man admires a woman not for what she says, but what she listens to.

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.

I know many married men, I even know a few happily married men, but I don't know one who wouldn't fall down the first open coal hole running after the first pretty girl who gave him a wink.

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

What passes for woman's intuition is more often intrinsically nothing more than man's transparency.

There is something distinguished about even his failures; they sink not trivially, but with a certain air of majesty, like a great ship, its flags flying, full of holes.

All one has to do to gather a large crowd in New York is to stand on the curb a few minutes and gaze intently at the sky.