Everyone carries his own inch rule of taste, and amuses himself by applying it, triumphantly, wherever he travels.

It [love] is a disease to be born with patience, like any nervous complaint, and to be treated with counter-irritants.

Chaos breeds life; Order creates habit.

The mind resorts to reason for want of training.

The Indian Summer of life should be a little sunny and a little sad, like the season, and infinite in wealth and depth of tone, but never hustled.

You say that love is nonsense. I tell you it is no such thing. For weeks and months it is a steady physical pain, an ache about the heart, never leaving one, by night or by day; a long strain on one's nerves like toothache or rheumatism, not intolerable at any one instant, but exhausting by its steady drain on the strength.

In the history of the United States, there is no continuity at all. You can cut through it anywhere and nothing on this side of the cut has anything to do with anything on the other side.