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.

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

Passion alone could destroy passion. All the thinking in the world could not make so much as a dent in its surface.

The nearer she came to death, the more, by some perversity of nature, did she enjoy living.

. . . this rage - I have never forgotten it - contained every anger, every revolt I had ever felt in my life - the way I felt when I saw the black dog hunted, the way I felt when I watched old Uncle Henry taken away to the almshouse, the way I felt whenever I had seen people or animals hurt for the pleasure or profit of others.

I am inclined to believe that a man may be free to do anything he pleases if only he will accept responsibility for whatever he does.

Nothing in life is so hard that you can't make it easier by the way you take it.