Hope is a bad thing. It means that you are not what you want to be. It means that part of you is dead, if not all of you. It means that you entertain illusions. It's a sort of spiritual clap, I should say.

Out yonder they may curse, revile, and torture one another, defile all the human instincts, make a shambles of creation (if it were in their power), but here, no, here, it is unthinkable, here there is abiding peace, the peace of God, and the serene security created by a handful of good neighbors living at one with the creature world.

For the artist to attach himself to his work, or identify himself with it, is suicidal.

I used to think a bird couldn't fly if its wings got wet.

And what is the potential man, after all? Is he not the sum of all that is human? Divine, in other words?

No man would set a word down on paper if he had the courage to live out what he believed in.

When you can't create you can work