Hang ideas! They are tramps, vagabonds, knocking at the back-door of your mind, each taking a little of your substance, each carrying away some crumb of that belief in a few simple notions you must cling to if you want to live decently and would like to die easy!

Happiness, happiness ... the flavor is with you-with you alone, and you can make it as intoxicating as you please.

Fiction is history, human history, or it is nothing.

All roads are long which lead to one's heart's desire.

Vanity plays lurid tricks with our memory, and the truth of every passion wants some pretence to make it live.

His very existence was improbable, inexplicable, and altogether bewildering. He was an insoluble problem. It was inconceivable how he had existed, how he had succeeded in getting so far, how he had managed to remain -- why he did not instantly disappear.

The artist in his calling of interpreter creates because he must. He is so much of a voice that, for him, silence is like death