The notion of sitting down and conjuring up, not only words in which to clothe thoughts but thoughts worthy of being clothed--the whole thing was absurdly beyond his desires.

Every author ought to write every book as if he were going to be beheaded the day he finished it.

That familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.

An author ought to write for the youth of his own generation, the critics of the next, and the schoolmaster of ever afterwards.

i was perhaps an egotist in youth, but i soon found it made me morbid to think too much about myself

The invitation to Miss Myra St. Claire's bobbing party spent the morning in his coat pocket, where it had an intense physical affair with a dusty piece of peanut brittle.

he found what a grotesque thing a rose is and how raw the sunlight was upon the scarcely created grass.