I have sometimes thought that his bursts of imaginative talk were fatal to his poetic gift. He squandered too much in the heat of personal communication.

One may have staunch friends in one's own family, but one seldom has admirers.

Winter lies too long in country towns; hangs on until it is stale and shabby, old and sullen.

The end is nothing; the road is all.

She had certain thoughts which were like companions, ideas which were like older and wiser friends.

If youth did not matter so much to itself, it would never have the heart to go on.

Too much detail is apt, like any other form of extravagance, to become slightly vulgar.