I shall not die of a cold. I shall die of having lived.

Men are all right for friends, but as soon as you marry them they turn into cranky old fathers, even the wild ones.

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.

The world is little, people are little, human life is little. There is only one big thing — desire.

The emptiness was intense, like the stillness in a great factory when the machinery stops running.

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.

Thirty or forty years ago, in one those grey towns along the Burlington railroad which are so much greyer to-day than they were then, there was a house well know from Omaha to Denver for its hospitality and for a certain charm of atmosphere.