To be an American is not...a matter of blood; it is a matter of an idea--and history is the image of that idea.

For the truth is a terrible thing.

There is no country but the heart.

Everything seems an echo of something else.

You don’t choose a story, it chooses you.

That summer we had been absolutely alone, together, even when people were around, the only inhabitants of the kind of floating island or magic carpet which being in love is.

A symbol serves to combine heart and intellect.