Often I think writing is a sheer paring away of oneself leaving always something thinner, barer, more meagre.

It takes a genius to whine appealingly.

Then I grew up, and the beauty of succulent illusions fell away from me.

Reserving judgements is a matter of infinite hope.

She was incomprehensible, for, in her, soul and spirit were one - the beauty of her body was the essence of her soul. She was that unity sought for by philosophers through many centuries. In this outdoor waiting room of winds and stars she had been sitting for a hundred years, at peace in the contemplation of herself.

Draw your chair up close to the edge of the precipice and I’ll tell you a story.

France was a land, England was a people, but America, having about it still that quality of the idea, was harder to utter - it was the graves at Shiloh and the tired, drawn, nervous faces of its great men, and the country boys dying in the Argonne for a phrase that was empty before their bodies withered. It was a willingness of the heart.