Happiness is itself a kind of gratitude.

There is no conceivable human action which custom has not at one time justified and at another condemned.

There are some optimists who search eagerly for the skunk cabbage which in February sometimes pushes itself up through the ice, and who call it a sign of spring. I wish that I could feel that way about it, but I do not. The truth of the matter, to me, is simply that skunk cabbage blooms in the winter time.

The rare moment is not the moment when there is something worth looking at, but the moment when we are capable of seeing.

If we do not permit the earth to produce beauty and joy, it will in the end not produce food, either.

As machines get to be more and more like men, men will come to be more like machines.

A tragic writer does not have to believe in God, but he must believe in man.