Some days are happy days - of themselves, as if for their own sakes. They seem to be enjoying themselves, regardless of what use may be made of them.

I am glad I worked on a newspaper because it made me know I had to write whether I felt like it or not.

Defeat furnishes good material to the poets and the artists, but none of us care to have the glory of the conquered apply to us.

But mayn't desertion be a brave thing? A fine thing? To desert a thing we've gone beyond - to have the courage to desert it and walk right off from the dead thing to the live thing - ?

Strength diminishes when it seems we are spending it in vain.

It is through suppression that hells are formed in us.

The facts of another's life do not illumine. Only when we know the heart can we know that life. Only the feeling that made the days can light them.