“When you forget to eat, you know you’re alive.”

The right time is any time that one is still so lucky as to have.

To criticize is to appreciate, to appropriate, to take intellectual possession.

Be generous, be delicate, and always pursue the prize.

She feels in italics and thinks in CAPITALS.

Americans will eat garbage provided you sprinkle it liberally with ketchup.

She is like a revolving lighthouse; pitch darkness alternating with a dazzling brilliancy!

A man who pretends to understand women is bad manners. For him to really to understand them is bad morals.

To believe in a child is to believe in the Future.

She had an unequalled gift, especially pen in hand, of squeezing big mistakes into small opportunities.

You must save what you can of your life; you musn’t lose it all simply because you’ve lost a part.

His beautiful, light imagination is the wing that on the autumn evening just brushes the dusky window.

It takes a great deal of history to produce a little literature.

Under certain circumstances there are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea.

One can’t judge till one’s forty; before that we’re too eager, too hard, too cruel, and in addition much too ignorant.

Don’t try so much to form your character – it’s like trying to pull open a tight, tender young rose.

The visible world is but man turned inside out that he may be revealed to himself.

The tears loosen their memories so they can slide away. They cry at the life they have lost, and then they cry at everything they’ll forget.

One of the first memories I have was watching Whoopi Goldberg perform her one-woman show on Broadway on HBO.

Read yourself, not books. Truth isn’t outside, that’s only memory, not wisdom. Memory without wisdom is like an empty thermos bottle – if you don’t fill it, it’s useless.

I’m not nostalgic. My memories are back here in my mind.

One must see the ideal in one’s own mind. It is like a memory – an awareness -of perfection.

They are immeasurable, completely lacking in substance. They are perfect and sublime. This is the subject matter of art.

If I have done any deed worthy of remembrance, that deed will be my monument. If not, no monument can preserve my memory.

Made difficult-to-come-by, whatever is buried in the memory by the collapse of meaning under an inadequate or lying language – this will become, not merely unspoken, but unspeakable.