Color does to me what the touch of the earth did to the giant Antaeus - sends new life, vitality, courage, initiative surging through me. Sometime the scientists will discover that color is a renewer of life.
Real love, no matter how unworthy the object, is a glorious adventure. It bursts the shackles of selfishness. One's world is bigger, broader; one's sympathies are amazingly more tender. No matter what the result, if you haven't really loved, you haven't really lived.
It isn't the initial cost of a lie, it is the upkeep which counts so terribly.
Tragedy is chic but discontent is dowdy.
I've always claimed that success in writing - provided of course one had what it takes to make a writer - is like success in marriage, largely a question of good sportsmanship, of keeping on keeping on, of giving one's best and trying, everlastingly trying to make that best, better.
You'd be surprised to know how many heartaches, how many bitter disappointments, how many disasters that seem final when they come, we learn to survive and in time even to forget.
