Man is not himself only...He is all that he sees; all that flows to him from a thousand sources...He is the land, the lift of its mountain lines, the reach of its valleys.

All mountain streets have streams to thread them, or deep grooves where a stream might run. You would do well to avoid that range uncomforted by singing floods. You will find it forsaken of most things but beauty and madness and death and God.

When a woman ceases to alter the fashion of her hair, you guess that she has passed the crisis of her experience.

Even the people who have it do not definitely know what genius is.

Life set itself to new processions of seed-time and harvest, the skin newly turned to seasonal variations, the very blood humming to new altitudes.

Death by starvation is slow.

I am not sure that God always knows who are his great men; he is so very careless of what happens to them while they live.