“Write, write, write-till your fingers break.”

People are far more sincere and good-humored at speeding their parting guests than on meeting them.

Life on earth is inconceivable without trees.

Medicine is my lawful wife and literature my mistress; when I get tired of one, I spend the night with the other.

Women can’t forgive failure.

The secret of boring people lies in telling them everything.

What a delight it is to respect people!

If you ever have need of my life, come and take it.

It’s very hard, feeling that you’re no more than a piece of unwanted furniture in this world.

This life of ours, human life is like a flower gloriously blooming in a meadow: along comes a goat, eats it up–no more flower.

Let us learn to appreciate there will be times when the trees will be bare, and look forward to the time when we may pick the fruit.

Do you see that tree? It is dead but it still sways in the wind with the others. I think it would be like that with me. That if I died I would still be part of life in one way or another.

Write only of what is important and eternal.

If I had listened to the critics I’d have died drunk in the gutter

Only one who loves can remember so well.

There should be more sincerity and heart in human relations, more silence and simplicity in our interactions. Be rude when you’re angry, laugh when something is funny, and answer when you’re asked.

I expect I shall be a student to the end of my days.

Someone asked me what home was and all I could think of were the stars on the tip of your tongue, the flowers sprouting from your mouth, the roots entwined in the gaps between your fingers, the ocean echoing inside of your ribcage.

Love is like quicksilver in the hand. Leave the fingers open and it stays. Clutch it and it darts away.

Like a compass needle that points north, a man’s accusing finger always finds a woman. Always.

Jesus humbled himself. He went from commanding angels to sleeping in the straw. From holding stars to clutching Mary’s finger. The palm that held the universe took the nail of a soldier. Why? Because that’s what love does. It puts the beloved before itself.

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.

The moving finger writes; and having writ, moves on.

God’s finger touched him, and he slept.

Great oaks grow from little acorns. He has a green thumb. He has green fingers. He’s sowing his wild oats. Here Ceres’ gifts in waving prospect stand, And nodding tempt the joyful reaper’s hand.