Even now I cannot help feeling that it is a mistake to think that the passion one feels in creation is ever really shown in the work one creates.

The American father is never seen in London. He passes his life entirely in Wall Street and communicates with his family once a month by means of a telegram in cipher.

At every single moment of one's life one is what one is going to be no less than what one has been.

It is only the intellectually lost who ever argue.

The final mystery is oneself. When one has weighed the sun in the balance, and measured the steps of the moon, and mapped out the seven heavens star by star, there still remains oneself. Who can calculate the orbit of his own soul?

I made your sorrow mine also, that you might have help in bearing it.

Some people always know the price, but not the value