My last year as an artist in Europe was a sad year every place.

It was only late in life that I learned the simple lesson that history is merely anything that can happen.

For a while that summer in England, when the bull market still hung high, I went to the seashore and sat among the sounds of rocking buoys.

As one listens today to voices of indignant incredulity and looks back at one's past, I am reminded of my lawyer.

In the middle twenties, when I was an art student in Paris, there were a great many places there that advertised Real Southern Cooking.

Every writer that ever wrote about seeing Paris for the first time always starts, I believe, by stating that the horse chestnut trees were in blossom.

When dying, he said, “Dieu me pardonnera, c'est Son metier,” which Mama in her inexpensive French translated as, “Of course God will forgive me … that's His business.”...

After Mama and all the rest of us got back from Europe, everyone sat around waiting for the war to end in six months.

The first journal I ever kept was of the trip to Europe with Mama.

Someone gave a masked party in a wine cellar called “Little Europa.”