happiness makes us older, less romantic, less in need of dreams. Discontent, not happiness, is the food of youth and poetry.

We love those we are happy with. We do. For how else can we know we love them, or how else define loving?

children once settled and confident can mostly be left, it seems, to manage their difficulties without us. Only what we must do, always and unalterably, is hold their hand firmly in general goodwill, then they themselves seem to deal with their own particular troubles far better than we can.

I have reached the stage now where luxury is not in fine possessions but in carefree possessions, and the greatest luxury of all would be the completely expendable.

The sorrows we imagine are more profound and inconsolable than real life leaves us time for.

Enthusiasm is a plant which grows variously in the varying soils of different natures.

One of the many possible divisions of human beings is into those who make and those who use.