The stage on which we play our little dramas of life and love has for most of us but one setting.

it is axiomatic with most writing people that there are no such things as perfect conditions for work.

Well, that was life. It was an old tree, and the old passed on. Probably they did not mind. There came a time when all sap ran slowly, and the peace of age with all things behind it merged easily into the peace of death. The difficult thing was to be young.

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

Suspicion is like the rain. It falls on the just and on the unjust.

These are times of action. Men think and then act; sometimes, indeed, they simply act.

every act of one's life is the unavoidable result of every act that has preceded it.