Culture is the arts elevated to a set of beliefs.

All things on earth point home in old October; sailors to sea, travellers to walls and fences, hunters to field and hollow and the long voice of the hounds, the lover to the love he has forsaken.

Loneliness is and always has been the central and inevitable experience of every man.

But why had he always felt so strongly the magnetic pull of home, why had he thought so much about it and remembered it with such blazing accuracy, if it did not matter, and if this little town, and the immortal hills around it, was not the only home he had on earth? He did not know. All that he knew was that the years flow by like water, and that one day men come home again.

There’s no sight on earth more appealing than that of a woman making dinner for someone she loves.

Not even the most powerful organs of the press, including Time, Newsweek, and The New York Times, can discover a new artist or certify his work and make it stick. They can only bring you the scores.

You have reached the pinnacle of success as soon as you become uninterested in money, compliments, or publicity.