Details make stories human, and the more human a story can be, the better.

I am glad we do not have to try to kill the stars.

It is by riding a bicycle that you learn the contours of a country best, since you have to sweat up the hills and coast down them. Thus you remember them as they actually are, while in a motor car only a high hill impresses you, and you have no such accurate remembrance of the country you have driven through as you gain by riding a bicycle.

Fortunately I have never learned to take the good advice I give myself nor the counsel of my fears.

No, that is the great fallacy: the wisdom of old men. They do not grow wise. They grow careful.

The bicycle riders drank much wine, and were burned and browned by the sun. They did not take the race seriously except among themselves.

What difference does it make if you live in a picturesque little outhouse surrounded by 300 feeble minded goats and your faithful dog? The question is: Can you write?