He is outside of everything, and alien everywhere. He is an aesthetic solitary. His beautiful, light imagination is the wing that on the autumn evening just brushes the dusky window.

The face of nature and civilization in this our country is to a certain point a very sufficient literary field. But it will yield its secrets only to a really grasping imagination. To write well and worthily of American things one need even more than elsewhere to be a master.

We must for dear life make our own counter-realities.

I have performed the necessary butchery. Here is the bleeding corpse.

The right time is any time that one is still so lucky as to have.

I adore adverbs; they are the only qualifications I really much respect.

Which of you with taking thought can add to his stature one cubit?