The trouble is you almost have to marry a man before you can find out the sort of wife he needs; and usually it's exactly the sort you are not.

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

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

[Mark Twain] is still the rough, awkward, good-natured boy who swore at the deck hands when he was three years old. Thoroughly likeable as a good fellow, but impossible as a man of letters.

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.

After all, the supreme virtue in all art is soul, perhaps it is the only thing which gives art a right to be.

If you don't keep and guard and mature your force, and above all, have time and quiet to perfect your work, you will be writing things not much better than you did five years ago.