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.

In Haverford on the Platte the townspeople still talk of Lucy Gayheart.

People live through such pain only once. Pain comes again—but it finds a tougher surface.

That is happiness; to be dissolved into something complete and great.

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.

The irregular and intimate quality of things made entirely by the human hand.