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All The Same Don't Forget That You're Young — Blessedly Young; Be Glad Of It On The Contrary And Live Up To It. Live All You Can; It's A Mistake Not To. It Doesn't So Much Matter What You Do In Particular, So Long As You Have Your Life.

-Henry James

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All The Same Don't

Henry James

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All The Same Don't Forget That You're Young — Blessedly Young; Be Glad Of It On The Contrary And Live Up To It. Live All You Can; It's A Mistake Not To. It Doesn't So Much Matter What You Do In Particular, So Long As You Have Your Life.

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No Sovereign, No Court, No Personal Loyalty, No Aristocracy, No Church, No Clergy, No Army, No Diplomatic Service, No Country Gentlemen, No Palaces, No Castles, Nor Manors, Nor Old Country-houses, Nor Parsonages, Nor Thatched Cottages Nor Ivied Ruins No Cathedrals, Nor Abbeys, Nor Little Norman Churches No Great Universities Nor Public Schools -- No Oxford, Nor Eton, Nor Harrow No Literature, No Novels, No Museums, No Pictures, No Political Society, No Sporting Class -- No Epsom Nor Ascot Some Such List As That Might Be Drawn Up Of The Absent Things In American Life.

I'm Yours For Ever--for Ever And Ever. Here I Stand; I'm As Firm As A Rock. If You'll Only Trust Me, How Little You'll Be Disappointed. Be Mine As I Am Yours.

It Is Indeed Immensely Picturesque. I Can Fancy Sitting All A Summer's Day Watching Its Shadows Shorten And Lengthen Again, And Drawing A Delicious Contrast Between The World's Duration And The Feeble Span Of Individual Experience. There Is Something In Stonehenge Almost Reassuring; And If You Are Disposed To Feel That Life Is Rather A Superficial Matter, And That We Soon Get To The Bottom Of Things, The Immemorial Gray Pillars May Serve To Remind You Of The Enormous Background Of Time.

One Of My Latest Sensations Was Going To Lady Airlie's To Hear Browning Read His Own Poems - With The Comport Of Finding That, At Least, If You Don't Understand Them, He Himself Apparently Understands Them Even Less. He Read Them As If He Hated Them And Would Like To Bite Them To Pieces.

... Since She Might Not Be Splendid, She Would At Least Be Immaculate.

The Artist Beholds In Nature More Than She Herself Nature Is Conscious Of.

I Have Performed The Necessary Butchery. Here Is The Bleeding Corpse.

The Image Of The Presence, Whatever It Was, Waiting There For Him To Go -this Image Had Not Yet Been So Concrete For His Nerves As When He Stopped Short Of The Point At Which Certainty Would Have Come To Him. For, With All His Resolution, Or More Exactly With All His Dread, He Did Stop Short - He Hung Back From Really Seeing. The Risk Was Too Great And His Fear Too Definite: It Took At This Moment An Awful Specific Form.

He Is Outside Of Everything, And Alien Everywhere. He Is An Aesthetic Solitary. His Beautiful, Light Imagination Is The Wing That On The Autumn Evening Just Brushes The Dusky Window.

The Artist Is Present In Every Page Of Every Book From Which He Sought So Assiduously To Eliminate Himself.

Don’t Underestimate The Value Of Irony—it Is Extremely Valuable.

To Treat A Big Subject In The Intensely Summarized Fashion Demanded By An Evening's Traffic Of The Stage When The Evening, Freely Clipped At Each End, Is Reduced To Two Hours And A Half, Is A Feat Of Which The Difficulty Looms Large.

[thomas Henry] Huxley Is A Very Genial, Comfortable Being-yet With None Of The Noisy And Windy Geniality Of Some Folks Here, Whom You Find With Their Backs Turned When You Are Responding To The Remarks That They Have Made You.

Of Course What He Most Intensely Dreams Of Is Being Taken Out On Walks, And The More You Are Able To Indulge Him The More Will He Adore You And The More All The Latent Beauty Of His Nature Will Come Out.

Writing Is Not Primarily Escape, But Use.

The Only Success Worth One's Powder Was Success In The Line Of One's Idiosyncrasy... What Was Talent But The Art Of Being Completely Whatever One Happened To Be?

Congratulations

The "germ," Wherever Gathered, Has Ever Been For Me, "the Germ Of A Story," And Most Of The Stories Strained To Shape Under My Hand Have Sprung From A Single Small Seed, A Seed As Remote And Windblown As A Casual Hint.

Keep Making The Movements Of Life.

God's Creature Is One. He Makes Man, Not Men. His True Creature Is Unitary And Infinite, Revealing Himself, Indeed, In Every Finite Form, But Compromised By None.

We Must For Dear Life Make Our Own Counter-realities.

My Father Ain't In Europe; My Father's In A Better Place Than Europe." Winterbourne Imagined For A Moment That This Was The Manner In Which The Child Had Been Taught To Intimate That Mr. Miller Had Been Removed To The Sphere Of Celestial Reward. But Randolph Immediately Added, "my Father's In Schenectady.

It Might Seem That An Egg Which Has Succeeded In Being Fresh Has Done All That Can Reasonably Be Expected Of It.

To Criticize Is To Appreciate, To Appropriate, To Take Intellectual Possession, To Establish In Fine A Relation With The Criticized Thing And To Make It One's Own.

Do You Think It Is Better To Be Clever Than To Be Good?” “good For What?” Asked The Doctor. “you Are Good For Nothing Unless You Are Clever.

I Think Patriotism Is Like Charity -- It Begins At Home.

Americans Will Eat Garbage Provided You Sprinkle It Liberally With Ketchup.

The Right Time Is Any Time That One Is Still So Lucky As To Have.

Never Say You Know The Last Word About Any Human Heart.

Cats And Monkeys; Monkeys And Cats; All Human Life Is There.

People Talk About The Conscience, But It Seems To Me One Must Just Bring It Up To A Certain Point And Leave It There. You Can Let Your Conscience Alone If You're Nice To The Second Housemaid.

People Can Be In General Pretty Well Trusted, Of Course--with The Clock Of Their Freedom Ticking As Loud As It Seems To Do Here--to Keep An Eye On The Fleeting Hour.

Her Chief Dread In Life, At This Period Of Her Development, Was That She Would Appear Narrow Minded; What She Feared Next Afterwards Was That She Should Be So.

Make Him [the Reader] Think The Evil, Make Him Think It For Himself, And You Are Released From Weak Specifications.

Though There Are Some Disagreeable Things In Venice There Is Nothing So Disagreeable As The Visitors.

I've Always Expected The Worst, And It's Always Worse Than I Expected.

The Critical Sense Is So Far From Frequent That It Is Absolutely Rare, And The Possession Of The Cluster Of Qualities That Minister To It Is One Of The Highest Distinctions... In This Light One Sees The Critic As The Real Helper Of The Artist, A Torchbearing Outrider, The Interpreter, The Brother... Just In Proportion As He Is Sentient And Restless, Just In Proportion As He Reacts And Reciprocates And Penetrates, Is The Critic A Valuable Instrument.

Really, Universally, Relations Stop Nowhere, And The Exquisite Problem Of The Artist Is Eternally But To Draw, By A Geometry Of His Own, The Circle Within Which They Shall Happily Appear To Do So.

To Take What There Is In Life And Use It, Without Waiting Forever In Vain For The Preconceived, To Dig Deep Into The Actual And Get Something Out Of That; This, Doubtless, Is The Right Way To Live.

She Had An Immense Curiosity About Life, And Was Constantly Staring And Wondering.

London Is On The Whole The Most Possible Form Of Life.

Art Is Nothing More Than The Shadow Of Humanity.

Inspirational Running

If You Haven't Had Your Life What Have You Had?

It Is No Wonder He Wins Every Game. He Has Never Done A Thing In His Life Exept Play Games

It Was The Way The Autumn Day Looked Into The High Windows As It Waned; The Way The Red Light, Breaking At The Close From Under A Low Sombre Sky, Reached Out In A Long Shaft And Played Over Old Wainscots, Old Tapestry, Old Gold, Old Colour.

She Envied Ralph His Dying, For If One Were Thinking Of Rest That Was The Most Perfect Of All. To Cease Utterly, To Give It All Up And Not Know Anything More — This Idea Was As Sweet As The Vision Of A Cool Bath In A Marble Tank, In A Darkened Chamber, In A Hot Land.

The Face Of Nature And Civilization In This Our Country Is To A Certain Point A Very Sufficient Literary Field. But It Will Yield Its Secrets Only To A Really Grasping Imagination. To Write Well And Worthily Of American Things One Need Even More Than Elsewhere To Be A Master.

I Ought To Tell You That I'm Probably Your Cousin.

Do Not Mind Anything That Anyone Tells You About Anyone Else. Judge Everyone And Everything For Yourself.

It's Time To Start Living The Life You've Imagined.

I Have Lived Too Long In Foreign Parts

Ideas Are, In Truth, Force.

The Deepest Quality Of A Work Of Art Will Always Be The Quality Of The Mind Of The Producer...no Good Novel Will Ever Proceed From A Superficial Mind.

No, No—there Are Depths, Depths! The More I Go Over It, The More I See In It, And The More I See In It, The More I Fear. I Don’t Know What I Don’t See—what I Don’t Fear!

There Are Moods In Which One Feels The Impulse To Enter A Tacit Protest Against Too Gross An Appetite For Pure Aesthetics In This Starving And Sinning World. One Turns Half Away, Musingly, From Certain Beautiful Useless Things.

She Took Refuge On The Firm Ground Of Fiction, Through Which Indeed There Curled The Blue River Of Truth.

Experience Is Never Limited, And It Is Never Complete; It Is An Immense Sensibility, A Kind Of Huge Spider-web Of The Finest Silken Threads Suspended In The Chamber Of Consciousness, And Catching Every Air-borne Particle In Its Tissue.

You Are Good For Nothing Unless You Are Clever.

Women Never Dine Alone. When They Dine Alone They Don't Dine.

She Is Written In A Foreign Tongue.

Art Derives A Considerable Part Of Its Beneficial Exercise From Flying In The Face Of Presumptions.

I Call People Rich When They're Able To Meet The Requirements Of Their Imagination.

Young Men Of This Class Never Do Anything For Themselves That They Can Get Other People To Do For Them, And It Is The Infatuation, The Devotion, The Superstition Of Others That Keeps Them Going. These Others In Ninety-nine Cases Out Of A Hundred Are Women.

Her Memory's Your Love. You Want No Other.

When You Forget To Eat, You Know You're Alive.

Ignorance Is Bliss

Life Is A Predicament Which Precedes Death.

I Recall My Fleeting Instants In Savannah As The Taste Of A Cup Charged To The Brim.

You Must Save What You Can Of Your Life; You Musn't Lose It All Simply Because You've Lost A Part.

She Had A Certain Way Of Looking At Life Which He Took As A Personal Offense.

Art Is A Point Of View, And A Genius Way Of Looking At Things.

A Man Who Pretends To Understand Women Is Bad Manners. For Him To Really To Understand Them Is Bad Morals.

You Wanted To Look At Life For Yourself - But You Were Not Allowed; You Were Punished For Your Wish. You Were Ground In The Very Mill Of The Conventional.

I Take Up My Own Pen Again - The Pen Of All My Old Unforgettable Efforts And Sacred Struggles. To Myself - Today - I Need Say No More. Large And Full And High The Future Still Opens. It Is Now Indeed That I May Do The Work Of My Life. And I Will.

Live As You Like Best, And Your Character Will Take Care Of Itself. Most Things Are Good For You; The Exceptions Are Very Rare.

To Read Between The Lines Was Easier Than To Follow The Text.

Read Between The Lines

When I Am Wicked I Am In High Spirits.

To Believe In A Child Is To Believe In The Future. Through Their Aspirations They Will Save The World. With Their Combined Knowledge The Turbulent Seas Of Hate And Injustice Will Be Calmed.

...the Peculiar Air Of Oxford-the Air Of Liberty To Care For The Things Of The Mind Assured And Secured By Machinery Which Is In Itself A Satisfaction To Sense.

We Trust To Novels To Train Us In The Practice Of Great Indignations And Great Generosity.

Every Governmental Institution Has Been A Standing Testimony To The Harmonic Destiny Of Society, A Standing Proof That The Life Of Man Is Destined For Peace And Amity, Instead Of Disorder And Contention.

No Themes Are So Human As Those That Reflect For Us, Out Of The Confusion Of Life, The Close Connection Of Bliss And Bale, Of The Things That Help With The Things That Hurt, So Dangling Before Us Forever That Bright Hard Medal, Of So Strange An Alloy, One Face Of Which Is Somebody's Right And Ease And The Other Somebody's Pain And Wrong.

I Have Only To Let Myself Go! So I Have Said All My Life, Yet I Have Never Fully Done It.

The Girl Had A Certain Nobleness Of Imagination, Which Rendered Her A Good Many Services And Played Her A Great Many Tricks. She Spent Half Her Time In Thinking Of Beauty, Bravery, Magnanimity; She Had A Fixed Determination To Regard The World As A Place Of Brightness, Of Free Expansion, Of Irresistible Action, She Thought It Would Be Detestable To Be Afraid Or Ashamed. She Had An Infinite Hope That She Would Never Do Anything Wrong. She Had Resented So Strongly, After Discovering Them, Her Mere Errors Of Feeling.

Most English Talk Is A Quadrille In A Sentry-box.

I Would Give All I Possess To Get Out Of Myself; But Somehow, At The End, I Find Myself So Vastly More Interesting Than Nine Tenths Of The People I Meet.

I Know Of No Substitute Whatever For The Force And Beauty Of An Artistic Process.

Criticism Talks A Good Deal Of Nonsense, But Even Its Nonsense Is A Useful Force. It Keeps The Question Of Art Before The World, Insists Upon Its Importance.

Art Without Life Is A Poor Affair.

If You Have Work To Do, Don't Wait To Feel Like It; Set To Work And You Will Feel Like It.

She Had An Unequalled Gift, Especially Pen In Hand, Of Squeezing Big Mistakes Into Small Opportunities.

Excellence Does Not Require Perfection.

Everything About Florence Seems To Be Colored With A Mild Violet, Like Diluted Wine.

Art Does Not Lie In Copying Nature.- Nature Furnishes The Material By Means Of Which Is To Express A Beauty Still Unexpressed In Nature.-the Artist Beholds In Nature More Than She Herself Is Conscious Of.

Oxford Lends Sweetness To Labour And Dignity To Leisure.

Though It Might Have Its Momentary Alarms, Paternity Is Not An Exciting Vocation.

You Seemed To Me To Be Soaring Far Up In The Blue - To Be Sailing In The Bright Light, Over The Heads Of Men. Suddenly Some One Tosses Up A Faded Rosebud - A Missile That Should Never Have Reached You - And Down You Drop To The Ground.

If You Are Going To Be Pushed You Had Better Jump

I Don't Care Anything About Reasons, But I Know What I Like.

All The Same Don't Forget That You're Young — Blessedly Young; Be Glad Of It On The Contrary And Live Up To It. Live All You Can; It's A Mistake Not To. It Doesn't So Much Matter What You Do In Particular, So Long As You Have Your Life.

Don't Pass It By - The Immediate, The Real, The Ours, The Yours, The Novelist's That It Waits For.

Which Of You With Taking Thought Can Add To His Stature One Cubit?

Summer Afternoon, Summer Afternoon; To Me Those Have Always Been The Two Most Beautiful Words In The English Language.

Sorrow Comes In Great Waves...but Rolls Over Us, And Though It May Almost Smother Us, It Leaves Us. And We Know That If It Is Strong, We Are Stronger, Inasmuch As It Passes And We Remain.

I Have In My Own Fashion Learned The Lesson That Life Is Effort, Unremittingly Repeated.

It Takes A Great Deal Of History To Produce A Little Literature.

Make (the Reader) Think The Evil, Make Him Think It For Himself, And You Are Released From Weak Specifications. My Values Are Positively All Blanks, Save So Far As An Excited Horror, A Promoted Pity, A Created Expertness... Proceed To Read Into Them More Or Less Fantastic Figures.

It Is Art That Makes Life, Makes Interest, Makes Importance.

Instead Of Leading To The High Places Of Happiness, From Which The World Would Seem To Lie Below One, So That One Could Look Down With A Sense Of Exaltation And Advantage, And Judge And Choose And Pity, It Led Rather Downward And Earthward, Into Realms Of Restriction And Depression, Where The Sound Of Other Lives, Easier And Freer, Was Heard As From Above, And Served To Deepen The Feeling Of Failure.

To Say That She Had A Book Is To Say That Her Solitude Did Not Press Upon Her; For Her Love Of Knowledge Had A Fertilizing Quality And Her Imagination Was Strong. There Was At This Time, However, A Want Of Lightness In Her Situation, Which The Arrival Of An Unexpected Visitor Did Much To Dispel.

Her Imagination Was By Habit Ridiculously Active; When The Door Was Not Open It Jumped Out The Window.

In Art Economy Is Always Beauty.

I Always Want To Know The Things One Shouldn't Do." "so As To Do Them?" Asked Her Aunt. "so As To Choose." Said Isabel

If We Pretend To Respect The Artist At All We Must Allow Him His Freedom Of Choice , In The Face, In Particular Cases, Of Innumerable Presumptions That The Choice Will Not Fructify.

Every Good Story Is Of Course Both A Picture And An Idea, And The More They Are Interfused The Better.

New York Is Appalling, Fantastically Charmless And Elaborately Dire.

What Is Either A Picture Or A Novel That Is Not Character?

The Practice Of "reviewing"... In General Has Nothing In Common With The Art Of Criticism.

He Is The Same Old Sausage, Fizzing And Sputtering In His Own Grease.

The Fatal Futility Of Fact.

Novelist-citizen Of Two Countries Interpreter Of His Generation On Both Sides Of The Sea.

...and The Great Advantage Of Being A Literary Woman, Was That You Could Go Everywhere And Do Everything.

His Kiss Was Like White Lightning, A Flash That Spread, And Spread Again, And Stayed.

True Happiness, We Are Told, Consists In Getting Out Of One's Self; But The Point Is Not Only To Get Out - You Must Stay Out; And To Stay Out You Must Have Some Absorbing Errand.

I Recall This Passage As The Hour Of Its First Fully Coming Over Me That She Was A Beautiful Liberal Creature. I Had Seen Her Personality In Glimpses And Gleams, Like A Song Sung In Snatches, But Now It Was Before Me In A Large Rosy Glow, As If It Had Been A Full Volume Of Sound. I Heard The Whole Of The Air, And It Was Sweet Fresh Music, Which I Was Often To Hum Over.(sir Edmund Orme)

It's A Complex Fate, Being An American, And One Of The Responsibilities It Entails Is Fighting Against A Superstitious Valuation Of Europe.

Of Course You're Always At Liberty To Judge The Critic. Judge People As Critics, However, And You'll Condemn Them All!

Try To Be One Of The People On Whom Nothing Is Lost!

A Tradition Is Kept Alive Only By Something Being Added To It.

Her Reputation For Reading A Great Deal Hung About Her Like The Cloudy Envelope Of A Goddess In An Epic.

My Sole Wish Is To Frustrate As Utterly As Possible The Post-mortem Exploiter.

To Kill A Human Being Is, After All, The Least Injury You Can Do Him.

Life Being All Inclusion And Confusion, And Art Being All Discrimination And Selection, The Latter, In Search Of The Hard Latent Value With Which It Alone Is Concerned, Sniffs Round The Mass As Instinctively And Unerringly As A Dog Suspicious Of Some Buried Bone.

What Is Character But The Determination Of Incident? What Is Incident But The Illustration Of Character?

She Had Always Been Fond Of History, And Here [in Rome] Was History In The Stones Of The Street And The Atoms Of The Sunshine.

Things Are Always Different Than What They Might Be...if You Wait For Them To Change, You Will Never Do Anything.

The Visible World Is But Man Turned Inside Out That He May Be Revealed To Himself.

It Doesn't So Much Matter What You Do In Particular, So Long As You Have Your Life.

All Roads Lead To Rome, And There Were Times When It Might Have Struck Us That Almost Every Branch Of Study Or Subject Of Conversation Skirted Forbidden Ground.

If I Were To Live My Life Over Again, I Would Be An American. I Would Steep Myself In America, I Would Know No Other Land.

Ideas Are, In Truth, Forces. Infinite, Too, Is The Power Of Personality. A Union Of The Two Always Makes History.

Life Is, In Fact, A Battle. Evil Is Insolent And Strong; Beauty Enchanting, But Rare; Goodness Very Apt To Be Weak; Folly Very Apt To Be Defiant; Wickedness To Carry The Day; Imbeciles To Be In Great Places, People Of Sense In Small, And Mankind Generally Unhappy. But The World As It Stands Is No Narrow Illusion, No Phantasm, No Evil Dream Of The Night; We Wake Up To It, Forever And Ever; And We Can Neither Forget It Nor Deny It Nor Dispense With It.

That Accurst Autobiographic Form Which Puts A Premium On The Loose, The Improvised, The Cheap, And The Easy.

I Hate American Simplicity. I Glory In The Piling Up Of Complications Of Every Sort. If I Could Pronounce The Name James In Any Different Or More Elaborate Way I Should Be In Favor Of Doing It.

To Live Only To Suffer—only To Feel The Injury Of Life Repeated And Enlarged—it Seemed To Her She Was Too Valuable, Too Capable, For That. Then She Wondered If It Were Vain And Stupid To Think So Well Of Herself. When Had It Even Been A Guarantee To Be Valuable? Wasn't All History Full Of The Destruction Of Precious Things? Wasn't It Much More Probable That If One Were Fine One Would Suffer?

He Was There Or Was Not There: Not There If I Didn't See Him.

I Intend To Judge Things For Myself; To Judge Wrongly, I Think, Is More Honorable Than Not To Judge At All.

I Adore Adverbs; They Are The Only Qualifications I Really Much Respect.

I Mean That Everything This Afternoon Has Been Too Beautiful, And That Perhaps Everything Together Will Never Be So Right Again. I'm Very Glad Therefore You've Been A Part Of It.

Three Things In Human Life Are Important. The First Is To Be Kind. The Second Is To Be Kind. And The Third Is To Be Kind.

It's Never Permitted To Be Surprised At The Aberrations Of Born Fools.

To Live In The World Of Creation-to Get Into It And Stay In It-to Frequent It And Haunt It...to Think Intently And Fruitfully, To Woo Combinations And Inspirations Into Being By A Depth And Continuity Of Attention And Meditation-this Is The Only Thing.

He Valued Life And Literature Equally For The Light They Threw Upon Each Other; To His Mind One Implied The Other; He Was Unable To Conceive Of Them Apart.

Things Are Always Different From What They Might Be.

All Intimacies Are Based On Differences.

I Don't Want Everyone To Like Me; I Should Think Less Of Myself If Some People Did.

Be Generous, Be Delicate, And Always Pursue The Prize.

Money's A Horrid Thing To Follow, But A Charming Thing To Meet.

I Don't Care About Anything But You, And That's Enough For The Present. I Want You To Be Happy--not To Think Of Anything Sad; Only To Feel That I'm Near You And I Love You. Why Should There Be Pain? In Such Hours As This What Have We To Do With Pain? That's Not The Deepest Thing; There's Something Deeper.

Love Has Nothing To Do With Good Reasons.

Live All You Can; It's A Mistake Not To.

Inspirational Life

...he Had Long Decided That Abundant Laughter Should Be The Embellishment Of The Remainder Of His Days.

We Work In The Dark - We Do What We Can - We Give What We Have. Our Doubt Is Our Passion, And Our Passion Is Our Task. The Rest Is The Madness Of Art.

She Feels In Italics And Thinks In Capitals.

Until You Try, You Don't Know What You Can't Do.

The Girl Had A Certain Nobleness Of Imagination, Which Rendered Her A Good Many Services And Played Her A Great Many Tricks.

There Were Always People To Snatch At You, And It Would Never Occur To Them That They Were Eating You Up. They Did That Without Tasting.

To Believe In A Child Is To Believe In The Future.

The Black And Merciless Things That Are Behind The Great Possessions.

Art Requires, Above All Things, A Suppression Of Self, A Subordination Of One's Self To An Idea.

Little By Little, Even With Other Cares, The Slowly But Surely Working Poison Of The Garden-mania Begins To Stir In My Long-sluggish Veins.

The Power To Guess The Unseen From The Seen, To Trace The Implications Of Things, To Judge The Whole Piece By The Pattern . . . This Cluster Of Gifts May Almost Be Said To Constitute Experience.

We Must Grant The Artist His Subject, His Idea, His Donn´e: Our Criticism Is Applied Only To What He Makes Of It.

There Are Two Kinds Of Taste, The Taste For Emotions Of Surprise And The Taste For Emotions Of Recognition.

The Effort Really To See And Really To Represent Is No Idle Business In Face Of The Constant Force That Makes For Muddlement. The Great Thing Is Indeed That The Muddled State Too Is One Of The Very Sharpest Of The Realities, That It Also Has Color And Form And Character, Has Often In Fact A Broad And Rich Comicality.

Autobiography May Be The Preeminent Kind Of American Expression.

I Could Come Back To America..to Die..but Never, Never To Live.

It Is Difficult To Speak Adequately Or Justly Of London. It Is Not A Pleasant Place; It Is Not Agreeable, Or Cheerful, Or Easy, Or Exempt From Reproach. It Is Only Magnificent.

Am I Solemn? I Had An Idea I Was Grinning From Ear To Ear." "you Look As If You Were Taking Me To A Prayer-meeting Or A Funeral. If That's A Grin Your Ears Are Very Near Together." "should You Like Me To Dance A Hornpipe On The Deck?" "pray Do, And I'll Carry Round Your Hat. It'll Pay The Expenses Of Our Journey.

The House Of Fiction Has In Short Not One Window, But A Million, ... But They Are, Singly, As Nothing Without The Posted Presence Of The Watcher.

...the Great Merit Of The Place Is That One Can Arrange One's Life Here Exactly As One Pleases...there Are Facilities For Every Kind Of Habit And Taste, And Everything Is Accepted And Understood.

The Time-honored Bread-sauce Of The Happy Ending.

You Think Too Much.' 'i Suppose I Do; But I Can’t Help It, My Mind Is So Terribly Active. When I Give Myself, I Give Myself. I Pay The Penalty In My Headaches, My Famous Headaches--a Perfect Circlet Of Pain! But I Carry It As A Queen Carries Her Crown.

There Are Women Who Are For All Your 'times Of Life.' They're The Most Wonderful Sort.

If This Was Love, Love Had Been Overrated.

I've Struck Up A Tremendous Intimacy With Conte Alberto, And We Literally Can't Live Without Each Other. He Is The First Object My Eyes Greet In The Morning, And The Last At Night.

The Only Reason For The Existence Of A Novel Is That It Does Attempt To Represent Life.

Happy You Poets Who Can Be Present And So Present By A Simple Flicker Of Your Genius, And Not, Like The Clumsier Race, Have To Laya Train And Pile Up Faggots That May Not After Prove In The Least Combustible!

We Are Divided Of Course Between Liking To Feel The Past Strange And Liking To Feel It Familiar.

I Am Blackly Bored When They Are At Large And At Work; But Somehow I Am Still More Blackly Bored When They Are Shut Up In Holloway And We Are Deprived Of Them.

I Am Incapable Of Telling You Not To Feel. Feel, Feel, I Say - Feel For All You're Worth, And Even If It Half Kills You, For That Is The Only Way To Live.

One Is Oneself A Fine Consequence.

Sometimes She Went So Far As To Wish That She Should Find Herself In A Difficult Position, So That She Might Have The Pleasure Of Being As Heroic As The Occasion Demanded.

It Exhibits The Effort Of An Essentially Prosaic Mind To Lift Itself, By A Prolonged Muscular Strain, Into Poetry.

One Doesn't Defend One's God: One's God Is In Himself A Defense.

An Englishman's Never So Natural As When He's Holding His Tongue.

It Had Been Agreed Between Them That Lighted Candles At Wayside Inns, In Strange Countries Amid Mountain Scenery, Gave The Evening Meal A Peculiar Poetry.

Kidd, Turn Off The Light To Spare My Blushes.

Don't Try So Much To Form Your Character - It's Like Trying To Pull Open A Tight, Tender Young Rose. Live As You Like Best And Your Character Will Take Care Of Itself.

She Was A Woman Who, Between Courses, Could Be Graceful With Her Elbows On The Table.

It Is Altogether An Extraordinary Growing, Swarming, Glittering, Pushing, Chattering, Good-natured, Cosmopolitan Place, And Perhaps In Some Ways The Best Imitation Of Paris That Can Be Found (with A Great Originality Of Its Own).

I Don’t Think I Pity Her. She Doesn’t Strike Me As A Girl That Suggests Compassion. I Think I Envy Her... I Don’t Know Whether She Is A Gifted Being, But She Is A Clever Girl, With A Strong Will And A High Temper. She Has No Idea Of Being Bored...very Pretty Indeed; But I Don’t Insist Upon That. It’s Her General Air Of Being Someone In Particular That Strikes Me.

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