One Is Attracted To Beauty. Beauty Is

I Made A Boy's Mistake, Common Enough, Of Thinking That Real Life Was Knowing Many Things And Many People, Living Dangerously In Faraway Places, Crossing The Sea, Or Starting A Power Company On The Columbia River, A Steamship Line In Bolivia.

No One Ever Said That You Would Live To See The Repercussions Of Everything You Do, Or That You Have Guarantees, Or That You Are Not Obliged To Wander In The Dark, Or That Everything Will Be Proved To You And Neatly Verified Like Something In Science. Nothing Is: At Least Nothing That Is Worthwhile.

I'm Sort Of Murdered For Selling Books. The Idea Is, If You Make Money Your Work Can't Be Literary.

I Have Seen Lonely People Of Advancing Age, Yet As Constant As Angels, Keeping Faith To Those They Loved Who Fell In Wars That Current Generations, Not Having Known Them, Cannot Even Forget. The Sight Of Them Moving Hesitantly Among The Tablets And Crosses Is Enough To Break Your Heart.

The Streets Of New York And Some Wards Of Its Venerable Institutions Were Packed With People Who, Despite Being Entirely Forsaken, Had Episodes Of Glory That Made The Career Of Alexander The Great Seem Like A Day In The Life Of A File Clerk.