I grow numb; I grow stiff. How shall I break up this numbness which discredits my sympathetic heart?
to teach without zest is a crime.
All artists need a room of their own
In the 18th century we knew how everything was done, but here I rise through the air, I listen to voices in America, I see men flying- but how is it done? I can't even begin to wonder. So my belief in magic returns.
Her life-that was the only chance she had-the short season between two silences.
The man who is aware of himself is henceforward independent; and he is never bored, and life is only too short, and he is steeped through and through with a profound yet temperate happiness.