Sun and moon, sun and moon, time goes.

Art is like baby shoes. When you coat them with gold, they can no longer be worn.

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

I would rather have as my patron a host of anonymous citizens digging into their own pockets for the price of a book or a magazine than a small body of enlightened and responsible men administering public funds. I would rather chance my personal vision of truth striking home here and there in the chaos of publication that exists than attempt to filter it through a few sets of official, honorably public-spirited scruples.

When we try in good faith to believe in materialism, in the exclusive reality of the physical, we are asking our selves to step aside; we are disavowing the very realm where we exist and where all things precious are kept - the realm of emotion and conscience, of memory and intention and sensation.

Hemingway describes literary New York as a bottle full of tapeworms trying to feed on each other.

It's a man's world, they say; but in its daily textures it is a world created by and for women.