Ah, snug lie those that slumber Beneath Conviction's roof. Their floors are sturdy lumber, Their windows weatherproof. But I sleep cold forever And cold sleep all my kind, For I was born to shiver In the draft from an open mind.

Sons do not need you. They are always out of your reach, Walking strange waters.

A bit of trash now and then is good for the severest reader. It provides the necessary roughage in the literary diet.

A lady is smarter than a gentleman, maybe, she can sew a fine seam, she can have a baby, she can use her intuition instead of her brain, but she can't fold a paper in a crowded train.

The wonderful thing about saints is that they were human. They lost their tempers, got hungry, scolded God, were egotistical or impatient in their turns, made mistakes and regretted them. Still they went on doggedly blundering toward heaven.

Praise is warming and desirable. But it is an earned thing. It has to be deserved, like a hug from a child.

Sometimes I have a notion that what might improve the situation is to have women take over the occupations of government and trade and to give men their freedom.