It is a sadness of growing older that some of us lose our ardent appreciation of what is new and different and difficult.

There was no escaping by means of any journey, however adventurous, one took one's problems and sorrows with one.

It is all very well, when the pen flows, but then there are the dark days when imagination deserts one, and it is an effort to put anything down on paper. That little you have achieved stares at you at the end of the day, and you know the next morning you will have to scrape it down and start again.

People make one happy, not houses.

Clergymen have much the same in their breeches as other men.

There are people who may be trusted, men as well as women. There are are as many difference in their natures as there are flowers in these meadows.

The trouble with lies was that once started, the fiction had to be continued, and it was hard always to be remembering details that you had made up upon the spur of the moment.

Concern for someone else was a good remedy for taking the mind off one's own troubles.

Charge less, but charge. Otherwise, you will not be taken seriously, and you do your fellow artists no favours if you undercut the market.

People make one happy, not houses? I do not think so. Houses are more to be trusted than people.

When men are scared of a woman, they always accuse her of being mannish.

Mountains inspire awe in any human person who has a soul. They remind us of our frailty, our unimportance, of the briefness of our span on this earth. They touch the heavens, and sail serenely at an altitude beyond even the imaginings of a mere mortal.

One's first love is always perfect until one meets one's second love.

A man's looks are measured by the depth of his pockets.

Easy enough to dismiss others' problems when you had none of your own.