My father liked to moralize, and so do I. But he was in earnest, while I am embarrassed and pretend that I am merely being witty.

Self-pity dries up our sympathy for others.

F. Scott Fitzgerald thought that prolonging his adolescence would protect his talent.

Life just keeps unfolding, ignoring our praise or blame.

Reason is sight. Instinct is touch. Intuition is smell.

In the great cities, winter glitters with art and feasting. But poetry, the country cousin, sees only the dearth of the fields.

As I criss-cross the city hurrying, I feel always the unchanging cold beneath the pavement.