I think in order to write really well and convincingly, one must be somewhat poisoned by emotion, dislike, displeasure, resentment, fault-finding, imagination, passionate remonstrance, a sense of injustice-they all make fine fuel.

There are only two kinds of people in the world that really count. One kind's wheat and the other kind's emeralds.

There are people who have a penchant for cities-more than that, a talent for them, a gift of sensing them, of feeling their rhythm and pulsebeats, as others have a highly developed music sense, or color reaction. It is a thing that cannot be acquired.

Living the past is a dull and lonely business; looking back strains the neck muscles, causing you to bump into people not going your way.

Writing, to be memorable, must be done in a state of impassioned serenity.

I suppose it is a gift, being young, but it isn't special. We've all got it, early in life.

The small town smart set is deadly serious about its smartness.