All of our ideas come from the natural world: trees equal umbrellas.

Most modern reproducers of life, even including the camera, really repudiate it. We gulp down evil, choke at good.

Yet there is no spring in Florida, neither in boskage perdu, nor on the nunnery beaches.

The imagination loses vitality as it ceases to adhere to what is real.

How full of trifles everything is! It is only one's thoughts that fill a room with something more than furniture.

The exceeding brightness of this early sun Makes me conceive how dark I have become.

The imperfect is our paradise.