To those at the great house it means nothing, this handful of earth, but to me it means how much! (Buck, 57)
Whatever came to him was good. It was life. It was knowledge.
This was his mind, a storehouse, a computer programmed to life, minute by minute, hour by hour, day and night.
Crowds moved wherever he went, across the bridge to Manhattan, in New York, wherever he went, life flowed and eddied, but he was not part of it.
One faces the future with one's past.
To take each day as a separate page, to be read carefully, savoring all of the details, this is best for me, I think.
Of course imagination is the beginning of creation. Without imagination there can be no creation.
Make love! He disliked the phrase. Could one make love?
Wandering is never waste, dear boy,' he said. 'While you wander you will find much to wonder about, and wonder is the first step to creation.
For he came to perceive that since people were his study, his teachers, the objects through which he could satisfy his persistent wonder about life itself, his own being among others, wherever he live...
His problem was the eternal question: What should he be? Inventor, scientist, artist—the energy he felt surging through him, an energy far more than physical and yet pervading the restlessness of his...
He saw on the paper a picture of a man, white-skinned, who hung upon a crosspiece of wood. The man was without clothes except for a bit about his loins, and to all appearences he was dead, since his h...
Love alone could waken love.
If I have a handful of silver it is because I work and my wife works, and we do not, as some do, sit idling over a gambling table or gossiping on doorsteps never swept, letting the fields grow to weed...
An intelligent, energetic, educated woman cannot be kept in four walls — even satin-lined, diamond-studded walls — without discovering sooner or later that they are still a prison cell.
You can judge your age by the amount of pain you feel when you come in contact with a new idea.
But hers was a strange heart, sad in its very nature, and she could never weep and ease it as other women do, for her tears never brought her comfort.
We should so provide for old age that it may have no urgent wants of this world to absorb it from meditation on the next. It is awful to see the lean hands of dotage making a coffer of the grave.
A man is educated and turned out to work. But a woman is educated and turned out to grass.
Men and women should own the world as a mutual possession.