Growing old was simply a process of drawing closer to that ultimate independence called death.

You have stirred the soil with your plow, my friend. It will never be the same again.

The snow again. White, white net of beauty, net of dream, trapping the earth, trapping the helpless heart of life.

Ah, life, life, how madly, how cruelly it raced along your pulses!

I don't see as it matters much how well you mean if it's harm you're doin'.

There is too much doing - too little being! When we begin to get strenuous, life begins to grow intolerable.

it was a sly trick of God's to give a man work to do - it kept him from asking questions that God couldn't answer.