The roaring of the wind is my wife and the stars through the window pane are my children. The mighty abstract idea I have of beauty in all things stifles the more divided and minute domestic happiness.

'A duck!... A baby duck.' (Squealing about a birthday card on her third birthday on Puerta Vallarta, Mexico.

Every man sees in his relatives, and especially in his cousins, a series of grotesque caricatures of himself.

'When you kiss someone, your heart goes out to them, and when you're done kissing them your heart goes back in.'

“If we call these foothills, can we call the little trees 'foot trees?''' (While driving in the foothills.)