Life began for me, when I ceased to admire and began to remember.

A soup like this is not the work of one man. It is the result of a constantly refined tradition. There are nearly a thousand years of history in this soup.

Paris is a hard place to leave, even when it rains incessantly and one coughs continually from the dampness.

There seemed to be nothing to see; no fences, no creeks or trees, no hills or fields. If there was a road, I could not make it out in the faint starlight. There was nothing but land: not a country at all, but the material out of which countries are made.

Artistic growth is, more than it is anything else, a refining of the sense of truthfulness.

Life was so short that it meant nothing at all unless it were continually reinforced by something that endured; unless the shadows of individual existence came and went against a background that held together.

There is often a good deal of the child left in people who have had to grow up too soon.