Flowers Really Do Intoxicate Me.

[on Writing:] The Most Egotistic Of Occupations, And The Most Gratifying While It Lasts.

The More One Gardens, The More One Learns; And The More One Learns, The More One Realizes How Little One Knows.

It Is Necessary To Write, If The Days Are Not To Slip Emptily By. How Else, Indeed, To Clap The Net Over The Butterfly Of The Moment? For The Moment Passes, It Is Forgotten; The Mood Is Gone; Life Itself Is Gone. That Is Where The Writer Scores Over His Fellows: He Catches The Changes Of His Mind On The Hop.

I Do Not Like January Very Much. It Is Too Stationary. Not Enough Happens. I Like The Evidences Of Life, And In January There Are Too Few Of Them.

It Is Dreadful How I Miss You, And Everything That Everybody Says Seems Flat And Stupid.