Happiness is a hardy annual.

Knowledge, like experience, is valid in fiction only after it has dissolved and filtered down through the imagination into reality.

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!"

Insolent youth rides, now, in the whirlwind. For those modern iconoclasts who are without culture possess, apparently, all the courage.

There wouldn't be half as much fun in the world if it weren't for children and men, and there ain't a mite of difference between them under the skins.

I suppose I am a born novelist, for the things I imagine are more vital and vivid to me than the things I remember.

There is no state of satisfaction, because to himself no man is a success.