“The joy of writing. The power of preserving. Revenge of a mortal hand.”

They say the first love’s most important. That’s very romantic, but not my experience.

No day copies yesterday, no two nights will teach what bliss is in precisely the same way, with precisely the same kisses.

What does the world get from two people/who exist in a world of their own?

Generally speaking, life is so rich and full of variety; you have to remember all the time that there is a comical side to everything.

I cannot imagine any writer who would not fight for his peace and quiet.

I’m working on the world, revised, improved edition, featuring fun for fools blues for brooders, combs for bald pates, tricks for old dogs.

There’s simply too much fuss about myself.

Animals don’t even try to look any different from what nature intended. They humbly wear their shells, scales, spines, plumes, pelts, and down. The conscious impulse to change one’s appearance is found only among humans.

Such certainty is beautiful, but uncertainty is more beautiful still.

Even the worst book can give us something to think about.

Loveless work, boring work, work valued only because others haven’t got even that much, however loveless and boring – this is one of the harshest human miseries.

And whatever I do will become forever what I’ve done.

Is a decision made in advance really any kind of choice?

Something doesn’t start at its usual time. Something doesn’t happen as it should. Someone was always, always here, then suddenly disappeared and stubbornly stays disappeared.

We’re extremely fortunate not to know precisely the kind of world we live in. One would have to live a long, long time, unquestionably longer than the world itself.

There is so much Everything that Nothing is hidden quite nicely.

Love to faults is always blind, always is to joy inclined. Lawless, winged, and unconfined, and breaks all chains from every mind.

He who kisses joy as it flies by will live in eternity’s sunrise.

One of the great undiscovered joys of life comes from doing everything one attempts to the best of one’s ability. The smallest task, well done, becomes a miracle of achievement.

With an eye made quiet by the power of harmony, and the deep power of joy, we see into the life of things.

In my family, there was not an abundance of wealth, but there was an abundance of love. So there was always humor, and there was joy and there was comfort and there was this environment just to have a good time.

O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive!

May books and nature be their early joy!

Heap on more wood! – the wind is chill; But let it whistle as it will, We’ll keep our Christmas merry still.