Sentimentalism is the working off on yourself of feelings you haven't really got.

The grim frost is at hand, when apples will fall thick, almost thunderous, on the hardened earth.

When along the pavement, Palpitating flames of life, People flicker around me, I forget my bereavement, The gap in the great constellation, The place where a star used to be

Don't be on the side of the angels, it's too lowering.

Literary criticism can be no more than a reasoned account of the feeling produced upon the critic by the book he is criticising.

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

You have to have something vicious in you to be a creative writersomething old-adamish, incompatible to the "ordinary world.