Christmas isn’t a season. It’s a feeling.
Being an old maid is like death by drowning, a really delightful sensation after you cease to struggle.
If American politics are too dirty for women to take part in, there’s something wrong with American politics.
Life can’t defeat a writer who is in love with writing, for life itself is a writer’s lover until death.
A stricken tree, a living thing, so beautiful, so dignified, so admirable in its potential longevity, is, next to man, perhaps the most touching of wounded objects.
Any garment which is cut to fit you is much more becoming, even if it is not so splendid as a garment which has been cut to fit somebody not of your stature.
It’s terrible to realize you don’t learn how to live until you’re ready to die, and then it’s too late.
Roast beef, medium, is not only a food. It is a philosophy.
Living the past is a dull and lonely business; looking back strains the neck muscles, causing you to bump into people not going your way.
Perhaps too much of everything is as bad as too little.