Comfort and indolence are cronies.

With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread.

No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds - November!

Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!

My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread.

Coquetry is the champagne of love.

There's a double beauty whenever a swan Swims on a lake with her double thereon.

Some minds improve by travel, others, rather, resemble copper wire, or brass, which get the narrower by going farther.

I saw old Autumn in the misty morn stand shadowless like silence, listening to silence.

I remember, I remember, The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn.

Gold! gold! gold! gold! Bright and yellow, hard and cold!

Let it go and learn from the process.

That empty sick feeling came over me again. In a big school it was easy to fade into the background, but I didn’t know if that would be possible here. I tried not to think about it anymore.

The real question is: to whom does the meaning of the art of the past properly belong ? To those who can app|y it to their own lives, or to a cultural hierarchy of relic specialtsts?

At the age of 12 my ambition was to become a gangster. To be a wiseguy. Being a wiseguy was better than being President of the United States. To be a wiseguy was to own the world.

When spring comes to Paris the humblest mortal alive must feel that he dwells in paradise.

Now success was like lust, she's good to the touch, She's good for the moment, but she's never enough

College was a blast. My three years of college were the best years of my life.

It's a very, very difficult space to operate in, the restaurant business-it requires a lot of human beings to intersect at just the right place to make it all work out.

The civilizing process has increased the distance between behavior and the impulse life of the animal body.

What with the reviews of critics, the sarcasms of one's friends, the reproaches of one's own taste, there's precious little peace after publishing a book.