"While my companion is busily engaged in getting copy for a special article about the Market, I step nimbly out of the way of a swarthy gentleman from Calabria, who with his two-wheeled barrow is the last link in the immense chain of transportation connecting the farmer in the distant tropics and the cockney pedestrian who halts on the sidewalk and purchases a banana for a couple of pennies."

“Terrible and sublime thought, that every moment is supreme for some man and woman, every hour the apotheosis of some passion!”

“It is extraordinary how many emotional storms one may weather in safety if one is ballasted with ever so little gold.”

“A young man must let his ideas grow, not be continually rooting them up to see how they are getting on.”

“The world belongs to the enthusiast who keeps cool.”

“If fate means you to lose, give him a good fight anyhow.”

“And what are those things at all?" demands my companion, diverted for a moment from the flowers. She nods towards a mass of dull-green affairs piled on mats or being lifted from big vans. She is a Cockney and displays surprise when she is told those things are bananas. She shrugs and turns again to the musk-roses, and forgets. But to me, as the harsh, penetrating odor of the green fruit cuts across the heavy perfume of the flowers, comes a picture of the farms in distant Colombia or perhaps Costa Rica. There is nothing like an odor to stir memories.”