No one in this country has any root anywhere; we don't live in America, we board here, we are like spiders that run over the surface of the water.

The creative impulses of man are always at war with the possessive impulses.

As against having beautiful workshops, studies, etc., one writes best in a cellar on a rainy day.

Never forget that it is we New Yorkers and New Englanders who have the monopoly of whatever oxygen there is in the American continent.

Genius and virtue are to be more often found clothed in gray than in peacock bright.

Nothing is so soothing to our self-esteem as to find our bad traits in our forebears. It seems to absolve us.

The instructed man is ashamed to pronounce in an Orphic manner what everybody knows, and because he is silent people think he is making fun of them.