But you, oh gardener, poet that you be / Though unaware, now use your seeds like words / And make them lilt with color nicely flung.

It is no good my telling you. One never believes other people's experiencem and one is only very gradually convinced by one's own.

Travel is in sad case. It is uncomfortable, it is expensive; it is a source of annoyance to our friends, and of loneliness to ourselves.

For bees are captious folk / And quick to turn against the lubber's touch.

It is necessary to write, if the days are not to slip emptily by. How else, indeed, to clap the net over the butterfly of the moment? For the moment passes, it is forgotten; the mood is gone; life itself is gone. That is where the writer scores over his fellows: he catches the changes of his mind on the hop.

Serenity of spirit and turbulence of action should make up the sum of a man's life.

Travel is a private pleasure, since it consists entirely of things felt and things seen.