A man is a writer if all his words are strung in definite sentence sounds.

As for butterflies, I can hardly conceive of one's attending upon you; but to question the congruence of the complement is vain, if it exists.

Poetry is the art of creating imaginary gardens with real toads.

Your thorns are the best part of you.

Any writer overwhelmingly honest about pleasing himself is almost sure to please others.

Originality is... a by-product of sincerity.

Camels are snobbish and sheep, unintelligent; water buffaloes, neurasthenic-- even murderous. Reindeer seem over-serious.

Omissions are not accidents.

The hands are the heart's messengers.

The passion for setting people right is in itself an afflictive disease.

When one cannot appraise out of one's own experience, the temptation to blunder is minimized, but even when one can, appraisal seems chiefly useful as appraisal of the appraiser.

Think of the old cliché about the mind being 'an excellent servant but a terrible master'. This, like many clichés, so lame & banal on the surface, actually expresses a great & terrible truth.

Nothing ends, Adrian. Nothing ever ends.

You've just got to take a good hard look at yourself, change what needs to be changed, and move on.

Live, love and enjoy the present moment. This moment is the pearl of your precious life.

never ask the tight-rope walker how he keeps his balance. if he stops to think about it, he falls off

In the fall nature informs us of its artistic side. It again confirms the beauty of the world. Nature is art perfected.

It disturbs me no more to find men base, unjust, or selfish than to see apes mischievous, wolves savage, or the vulture ravenous.

... I feel far more hunger pangs when I am denied mental nourishment than I do at the loss of meals.

I long to be out in the sun with no work to be done.

And as this round (ring) is nowhere found to flaw, or else to sever. So let our love as endless prove and pure as gold forever.