Anne Spencer Lindbergh (née Morrow; June 22, 1906 – February 7, 2001) was an American author, aviator, and the wife of aviator Charles Lindbergh.
The web of marriage is made by propinquity, in the day to day living side by side, looking outward in the same direction. It is woven in space and in time of the substance of life itself.
I think best with a pencil in my hand.
The world has been forced to its knees. Unhappily, we seldom find our way there without being beaten to it by suffering.
It is terribly amusing how many different climates of feelings one can go through in one day.
Cut asparagus at night - in desperation. When one is very tired one always does one more thing.
For it is only framed in space that beauty blooms. Only in space are events and objects and people unique and significant-and therefore beautiful. A tree has significance if one sees it against the empty face of sky. A note in music gains significance from the silences on either side. A candle flowers in the space of night. Even small and casual things take on significance if they are washed in space, like a few autumn grasses in one corner of an Oriental painting, the rest of the page bare.
Can one make the future a substitute for the present? And what guarantee have we that the future will be any better if we neglect the present?
One can get just as much exultation in losing oneself in a little thing as in a big thing. It is nice to think how one can be recklessly lost in a daisy.
Life is a gift, given in trust - like a child.
And one perfect day can give clues for a more perfect life.
My father taught me that a bill is like a crying baby and has to be attended to at once.
People talk about love as though it were something you could give, like an armful of flowers. And a lot of people give love like that -- just dump it down on top of you, a useless strong-scented burden.
For it is not merely the trivial which clutters our lives but the important as well
We are always bargaining with our feelings so that we can live from day to day.
In general, I feel, or I have come to feel, that the richest writing comes not from the people who dedicate themselves to writing alone. I know this is contradicted again and again but I continue to feel it. They don't, of course, write as much, or as fast, but I think it is riper and more satisfying when it does come. One of the difficulties of writing or doing any kind of creative work in America seems to me to be that we put such stress on production and material results. We put a time pressure and a mass pressure on creative work which are meaningless and infantile in that field.
Geniuses were like storms or cyclones, pulling everything into their path, sticks and stones and dust.
The present is passed over in the race for the future; the here is neglected in favor of the there. Enjoy the moment, even if it means merely a walk in the country.
Men kick friendship around like a football, but it doesn't seem to crack. Women treat it like glass and it goes to pieces.
America, which has the most glorious present still existing in the world today, hardly stops to enjoy it, in her insatiable appetite for the future.
It is a difficult lesson to learn today-to leave one's friends and family and deliberately practice the art of solitude for an hour or a day or a week. And yet, once it is done, I find there is a quality to being alone that is incredibly precious. Life rushes back into the void, richer, more vivid, fuller than before.