It is only in the heart that anything really happens.

I liked human beings, but I did not love human nature.

Many of the men who had come to the wilderness to practice religion appeared to have forgotten its true nature.

As far back as I remember, long before I could write, I had played at making stories. But not until I was seven or more, did I begin to pray every night, "O God, let me write books! Please, God, let me write books!"

To a thrifty theologian, bent on redemption with economy, there are few points of ethics too fine-spun for splitting.

What depresses me is the inevitable way the second rate forges ahead and the deserving is left behind.

But there is, I have learned, no permanent escape from the past. It may be an unrecognized law of our nature that we should be drawn back, inevitably, to the place where we have suffered most.