Being very rich as far as I am concerned is having a margin. The margin is being able to give.

If I were to choose one single thing that that would restore Paris to the senses, it would be that strangely sweet, unhealthy smell of the Métro, so very unlike the dank cold or the stuffy heat of subways in New York.

I would like to believe when I die that I have given myself away like a tree that sows seed every spring and never counts the loss, because it is not loss, it is adding to future life. It is the tree's way of being. Strongly rooted perhaps, but spilling out its treasure on the wind.

Women are at last becoming persons first and wives second, and that is as it should be.

For inside all the weakness of old age, the spirit, God knows, is as mercurial as it ever was.

What can I have that I still want?

For any writer who wants to keep a journal, be alive to everything, not just to what you're feeling, but also to your pets, to flowers, to what you're reading.