What was time itself but the bloom, the sheath enfolding experience? Within time, and with time alone, there was life - the gleam, the quiver, the heartbeat, the immeasurable joy and anguish of being.

The hardest thing to believe when you're young is that people will fight to stay in a rut, but not to get out of one.

It would appear, from the best examples, that the proper way of beginning a preface to one's work is with a humble apology for having written at all.

... to be "literary" appeared to my deluded innocence as an unending romance.

The transcendental point of view, the habit of thought bred by communion with earth and sky, had refined the grain while it had roughened the husk.

No one in the modern world is more lonely than the writer with a literary conscience.

The older I grow the more earnestly I feel that the few joys of childhood are the best that life has to give.