One of the first obligations of art is to make all useful things beautiful.
I was a failure in Boston...because they thought I was too fashionable to be intelligent, and a failure in New York because they were afraid I was too intelligent to be fashionable.
Every house is a mad-house at some time or another.
She was not accustomed to taste the joys of solitude except in company.
They seemed to come suddenly upon happiness as if they had surprised a butterfly in the winter woods
The only way not to think about money is to have a great deal of it.
Only the fact that we are unaware how well our nearest know us enables us to live with them.
He had her in his arms, her face like a wet flower at his lips, and all their vain terrors shriveling up like ghosts at sunrise.
Everything may be labelled- but everybody is not.
Misfortune had made Lily supple instead of hardening her, and a pliable substance is less easy to break than a stiff one.
Why do we call all our generous ideas illusions, and the mean ones truths?
I feel as if I could trust my happiness to carry me; as if it had grown out of me like wings.
Her failure was a useful preliminary to success.
She wondered if, when human souls try to get too near each other, they do not inevitably become mere blurs to each other's vision.
She had no tolerance for scenes which were not of her own making.
...and wondering where he had read that clever liars give details, but that the cleverest do not.
In reality they all lived in a kind of hieroglyphic world, where the real thing was never said or done or even thought, but only represented by a set of arbitrary signs.
The visible world is a daily miracle for those who have eyes and ears; and I still warm hands thankfully at the old fire, though every year it is fed with the dry wood of more old memories.
Poetry and art are the breath of life to her.
I'm afraid I'm an incorrigible life-lover, life-wonderer, and adventurer.
... caprice is as ruinous as routine.
Habit is necessary; it is the habit of having habits, of turning a trail into a rut, that must be incessantly fought against if one is to remain alive.
Everybody who does anything at all does too much.
Inkstands and tea-cups are never as full as when one upsets them.
Art is on the side of the oppressed. Think before you shudder at the simplistic dictum and its heretical definition of the freedom of art. For if art is freedom of the spirit, how can it exist within the oppressors?
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