It's well we cannot hear the screams we make in other people's dreams.
When we say we are certain so-and-so can't possibly have done it, what we mean is that we think he very likely did.
Growing old is not a gradual decline, but a series of drops, full of sorrow, from one ledge to another below it.
Happiness is a wine of the rarest vintage, and seems insipid to a vulgar taste.
When elderly invalids meet with fellow-victims of their own ailments, then at last real conversation begins, and life is delicious.
The great art of writing is the art of making people real to themselves with words.
What things there are to write, if one could only write them! My mind is full of gleaming thought; gay moods and mysterious, moth-like meditations hover in my imagination, fanning their painted wings. But always the rarest, those streaked with azure and the deepest crimson, flutter away beyond my reach.
It makes me so happy. To be at the beginning again, knowing almost nothing. . . . A door like this has cracked open five or six times since we got up on our hind legs. It's the best possible time of being alive, when almost everything you thought you knew is wrong.
I know there are some Christians who believe that war and their participation in it are morally wrong. While I respect their views and must allow them to follow their consciences, I do not believe the Bible teaches pacifism.
I'm kidding about having only a few dollars. I might have a few dollars more.
A selfish person says, hey, me and my four at home and no more and whatever happens to you is OK. But it can't be that way. It cannot be that way.