An artist is only an ordinary man with a greater potentiality--same stuff, same make up, only more force. And the strong driving force usually finds his weak spot, and he goes cranked, or goes under.

One realm we have never conquered: the pure present.

Only the desert has a fascination--to ride alone--in the sun in the forever unpossessed country--away from man. That is a great temptation.

Only in a novel are all things given full play.

In America the chief accusation seems to be one of "Eroticism." This is odd, rather puzzling to my mind. Which Eros? Eros of the jaunty "amours," or Eros of the sacred mysteries? And if the latter, why accuse, why not respect, even venerate?

Any novel of importance has a purpose. If only the "purpose" be large enough, and not at outs with the passional inspiration.

How ravished one could be without ever being touched. Ravished by dead words become obscene and dead ideas become obsessions.