It’s spring! Farewell To chills and colds! The blushing, girlish World unfolds Each flower, leaf And blade of sod— Small letters sent To her from God.

Within your own generation-the same songs, the same wars, the same attitudes toward those wars, the same rules and radio shows in the air-you can gauge the possibilities and impossibilities. With a person of another generation, you are treading water, playing with fire.

Natural beauty is essentially temporary and sad, hence the impression of obscene mockery which artificial flowers give us.

Money is like water in a leaky bucket: no sooner there, it begins to drip.

All men are mortal, and therefore all men are losers; our profoundest loyalty goes out to the failed.

The muttered hint, "Remember, you have a stroke here," freezes my joints like a blast from Siberia.

What is the past, after all, but a vast sheet of darkness in which a few moments, pricked apparently at random, shine?