The moment of cocoa-drinking was always the moment of confidences.

The sun was like a word written between the sea and the sky, a word that was swallowed up by the sea before any man had time to read it.

Nearly everybody in San Francisco writes poetry. Few San Franciscans would admit this, but most of them would rather like to have their productions accidentally discovered.

The dense and godly wear consistency as a flower, the imaginative fling it joyfully behind them.

Family jokes, though rightly cursed by strangers, are the bond that keeps most families alive.

The Law likes to be argued with. Take away words and where is the Law? Silence always annoys it.

always there is a sort of dream of air between you and the hills of California, a veil of unreality in the intervening air. It gives the hills the bloom that peaches have, or grapes in the dew.