Great loves were almost always great tragedies. Perhaps it was because love was never truly great until the element of sacrifice entered into it.

having considerable mind, changing it became almost as ponderous an operation as moving a barn, although not nearly so stable.

I suppose there is something in all of us that harks back to the soil. When you come to think of it, what are picnics but outcroppings of instinct? No one really enjoys them or expects to enjoy them, but with the first warm days some prehistoric instinct takes us out into the woods, to fry potatoes over a strangling wood fire or spend the next week getting grass stains out of our clothes. It must be instinct; every atom of intelligence warns us to stay at home near the refrigerator.

We are often miserable at our desk or typewriters, but not happy away from them.

From class consciousness to class hatred was but a step.

because we are always staring at the stars, we learn the shortness of our arms.

The one pleasure that never palls is the pleasure of not going to church.