Nothing mattered ... but writing books, and living the kind of life that made it possible to write them.

Oh, that's the beauty of the rose, that it blossoms and dies.

There is something frank and joyous and young in the open face of the country. It gives itself ungrudgingly to the moods of the season, holding nothing back.

A child's attitude toward everything is an artist's attitude.

The heart of another is a dark forest, always, no matter how close it has been to one's own.

There was a new kind of strength in the gravity of her face, and her colors still gave her that look of deep-seated health and ardor.

Our tree became the talking tree of the fairy tale; legends and stories nestled like birds in its branches.