Now in November nearer comes the sun down the abandoned heaven.

I think I am much too valuable a creature to offer myself to a German bullet gratis and for fun.

Literature is a toil and a snare, a curse that bites deep.

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.

Men always do leave off really thinking, when the last bit of wild animal dies in them.

Men live in glad obedience to the masters they believe in, or they live in a frictional opposition to the master they wish to undermine.

The words themselves are clean, so are the things to which they apply. But the mind drags in a filthy association, calls up some repulsive emotion. Well, then, cleanse the mind, that is the real job. It is the mind which is the Augean stables, not language.