Fiction does not invent out of a vacuum, but it invents; and what it invents is, first, the fabric and cadence of language, and then a slant of idea that sails out of these as a fin lifts from the sea.

I'm not afraid of facts, I welcome facts but a congeries of facts is not equivalent to an idea. This is the essential fallacy of the so-called "scientific" mind. People who mistake facts for ideas are incomplete thinkers; they are gossips.

Bohemia and all its works are vanished out of America; or, more exactly, bohemia has migrated to the middle class, and is alive and well in condo and suburb.

The art of fiction is freedom of will for your characters.

It isn't the instrument that influences High-Minded or Low-Minded; it's the quality of Mind itself.

We were born to die; we were born to endure, on the way to death, sorrow-sorrow in manifold shapes.

Traveling is seeing; it is the implicit that we travel by.