[of Henry Fielding's Tom Jones] [it is] like a vast episode in a…

I haven't a creature to talk to...How in Boston, when the evening arrives, and I am tired of reading, and know it would be better to do something else, can I go to the theater? I have tried it, ad nauseam. Likewise calling. Upon whom?"

The face of nature and civilization in this our country is to a certain point a very sufficient literary field. But it will yield its secrets only to a really grasping imagination... To write well and worthily of American things one need …

There are few things more exciting to me, in short, than a psychological reason.

In the long run an opinion often borrows credit from the forbearance of its patrons.

Everything about Florence seems to be coloured with a mild violet, like diluted wine.

It's a complex fate, being an American, and one of the responsibilities it entails is fighting against a superstitious valuation of Europe.