And now more than anything I want beautiful prose. I relish it more and more exquisitely.
My opinion is a view I hold until. . . well, until I find something that changes it.
It is misery, you know, unspeakable misery for the man who lives alone and who detests sordid, casual affairs; not old enough to do without women, but not young enough to be able to go and look for one without shame!
Not one of us can lie or pretend. We're all fixed in good faith in a certain concept of ourselves.
Man never reasons so much and becomes so introspective as when he suffers; since he is anxious to get at the cause of his sufferings, to learn who has produced them, and whether it is just or unjust that he should have to bear them.
Buffoons, buffoons! One can play any tune on them!
We all grasp on to a single idea of ourselves, the way aging people dye their hair. It’s no matter that this dye doesn’t fool you. My lady, you don’t dye your hair to decieve other people, or to fool yourself, but rather to cheat your image in your mirror a little.
All the great chefs I know - Thomas Keller, Jean-Georges Vongerichten - they are technicians first.
[Donald] Trump has made this a big issue. He's leading in Ohio. He's leading, right up there in Pennsylvania, 1-point difference, and people are responding because the people's instincts are correct. This is what I believe.
They say such nice things about people at their funerals that it makes me sad that I'm going to miss mine by just a few days.
I had heard the old Indian legend about the red fern. How a little Indian boy and girl were lost in a blizzard and had frozen to death. In the spring, when they were found, a beautiful red fern had grown up between their two bodies. The story went on to say that only an angel could plant the seeds of a red fern, and that they never died; where one grew, that spot was sacred.