You will walk differently alone, dear, through a thicker atmosphere, forcing your way through the shadows of chairs, through the dripping smoke of the funnels. You will feel your own reflection sliding along the eyes of those who look at you. You are no longer insulated; but I suppose you must touch life in order to spring from it.

All good writing is swimming under water and holding your breath.

God knows what you've been doing, everything you've been doing. You may fool me, but you can't fool God!

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.

I wish I could write. I get these ideas but I never seem to be able to put them in words.

i'm a slave to my emotions, to my likes, to my hatred of boredom, to most of my desires

So when the blue smoke of brittle leaves was in the air and the wind blew the wet laundry stiff on the line I decided to come back home.