It is through the cracks in our brains that ecstasy creeps in.

It is the dread of something happening, something unknown and dreadful, that makes us do anything to keep the flicker of talk from dying out.

An improper mind is a perpetual feast.

The great art of writing is the art of making people real to themselves with words.

There are few sorrows in which a good income is of no avail.

If we shake hands with icy fingers, it is because we have burnt them so horribly before.

What joy can the years bring half so sweet as the unhappiness they've taken away?