The most fatal thing a man can do is try to stand alone.

She wished there was some place where she could go to hum it out loud. Some kind of music was too private to sing in a house cram fall of people. It was funny, too, how lonesome a person could be in a crowded house.

It was like they waited to tell each other things that had never been told before. What she had to say was terrible and afraid. But what he would tell her was so true that it would make everything all right. Maybe it was a thing that could not be spoken with words or writing. Maybe he would have to let her understand this in a different way. That was the feeling she had with him.

You don't know what it is to store up a lot of details and then come upon something real.

I have more to say than Hemingway, and God knows, I say it better than Faulkner.

The writer is by nature a dreamer - a conscious dreamer.

When a person knows and can't make the others understand, what does he do?