Beauty means the scent of roses and then the death of roses

It's all life is. Just going 'round kissing people.

What was it up there in the song that seemed to be calling her back inside? What would happen now in the dim, incalculable hours?

There was never a good biography of a good novelist. There couldn't be. He is too many people if he's any good.

my imagination persisted in sticking horrors into the dark- so I stuck my imagination into the dark instead, and let it look out at me.

The rhythm of the weekend, with its birth, its planned gaiety, and its announced end, followed the rhythm of life and was a substitute for it.

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.