All my life, I have loved balloons - all balloons - the heavy English sort, immense and round, that have to be pushed about, and the gay, light, gas-filled French ones that soar into the air the moment you let go of them.
The half-hour of crowded anticipation, how fully it pays for the sterile hour that follows!
It is better not to sit on the grass after thirty when sprawling at all is difficult, let alone sprawling gracefully.
What you possess is not what you jingle in the pockets of your memory, but the imaginings with which you fill the spaces of the future.
I do not know at what moment in life, if ever, we realise that we are neither George Sands nor Juliets. Of course, if we are not beautiful, we recognise early that beauty is nothing.
Only the artists interest me whose hearts beat in unison with the poignant misery of the world. If you have not felt that, you have not lived. Pity is essential.