Later he saw Jesus move from tree to tree in the back of his mind, a wild ragged figure motioning him to turn around and come off into the dark where he might be walking on the water and not know it and then suddenly know it and drown.

I write any sort of rubbish which will cover the main outlines of the story, then I can begin to see it.

No art is sunk in the self, but rather, in art the self becomes self-forgetful in order to meet the demands of the thing seen and the thing being made.

What people don’t realize is how much religion costs. They think faith is a big electric blanket, when of course it is the cross.

The writer operates at a peculiar crossroads where time and place and eternity somehow meet. His problem is to find that location.

When using dialect, use it lightly. A dialect word here and there is enough. All you want to do is suggest. Never let it call attention to itself.

Being a Georgia author is a rather specious dignity, on the same order as, for the pig, being a Talmadge ham.