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

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

Sometimes I wonder why God ever trusts talent in the hands of women, they usually make such an infernal mess of it. I think He must do it as a sort of ghastly joke.

We all like people who do things, even if we only see their faces on cigar-box lids.

One summer evening in the year 1848, three Cardinals and a missionary were dining together in the gardens of a villa in the Sabine hills, overlooking Rome.

Religion and art spring from the same root and are close kin.

It is cremated youth. It is all yours--no one gave it to you.