There is no stillness like the quiet of the first cold nights in the fall.

People, unless they are nilly-willy or very sick, cannot be taken into the hands and be changed overnight into somthing more worth-while and profitable.

Falling in love is the easiest thing in the world. It's standing in love that matters.

How can the dead be truly dead when they still live in the souls of those who are left behind?

I want - I want - I want - was all that she could think about - but just what this real want was she did not know.

I was like a cat always climbing the wrong tree.

This fear is one of the horrors of an author's life. Where does work come from? What chance, what small episode will start the chain of creation? I once wrote a story about a writer who could not write anymore, and my friend Tennessee Williams said, 'How could you dare write that story, it's the most frightening work I have ever read.' I was pretty well sunk while I was writing it.