. . . every tree near our house had a name of its own and a special identity. This was the beginning of my love for natural things, for earth and sky, for roads and fields and woods, for trees and grass and flowers; a love which has been second only to my sense of enduring kinship with birds and animals, and all inarticulate creatures.

Nothing, except the weather report or a general maxim of conduct, is so unsafe to rely upon as a theory of fiction.

It is lovely, when I forget all birthdays, including my own, to find that somebody remembers me.

I have little faith in the theory that organized killing is the best prelude to peace.

Although the primitive in art may be both interesting and impressive, as portrayed in American fiction it is conspicuous for dullness alone. Drab persons living drab lives, observed by drab minds and reported in drab writing.

a self-made martyr is a poor thing.

I had no place in any coterie, or in any reciprocal self-advertising. I stood alone. I stood outside. I wanted only to learn. I wanted only to write better.