The image of the presence, whatever it was, waiting there for him to go -this image had not yet been so concrete for his nerves as when he stopped short of the point at which certainty would have come to him. For, with all his resolution, or more exactly with all his dread, he did stop short - he hung back from really seeing. The risk was too great and his fear too definite: it took at this moment an awful specific form.

I could come back to America..to die..but never, never to live.

The artist is present in every page of every book from which he sought so assiduously to eliminate himself.

If I were to live my life over again, I would be an American. I would steep myself in America, I would know no other land.

Art is nothing more than the shadow of humanity.

Things are always different from what they might be.

I recall my fleeting instants in Savannah as the taste of a cup charged to the brim.