As subjects, we all live in suspense, from day to day, from hour to hour; in other words, we are the hero of our own story. We cannot believe that it is finished, that we are 'finished,' even though we may say so; we expect another chapter, another installment, tomorrow or next week.

This grossly advertised wonder [Venice], this gold idol with clay feet, this trompe-l'oeil, this painted deception, this cliche-what intelligent iconoclast could fail to experience a destructive impulse in her presence?

Every age has a keyhole to which its eye is pasted.

The labor of keeping house is labor in its most naked state, for labor is toil that never finishes, toil that has to be begun again the moment it is completed, toil that is destroyed and consumed by the life process

There are no new truths, but only truths that have not been recognized by those who have perceived them without noticing.

We all live in suspense, from day to day, from hour to hour; in other words, we are the hero of our own story.

Venice, as a city, was a foundling, floating upon the waters like Moses in his basket among the bulrushes.