Writing is its own reward.

Once you have given up the ghost, everything follows with dead certainty, even in the midst of chaos.

At the bottom of every frozen heart there is a drop or two of love―just enough to feed the birds.

I haven't any allegiance, any responsibilities, any hatreds, any worries, any prejudices, any passion. I'm neither for nor against. I'm a neutral.

Often, when following the trail which meanders over the hills, I pull myself up in an effort to encompass the glory and the grandeur which envelops the whole horizon. Often, when the clouds pile up in the north and the sea is churned with white caps, I say to myself: "This is the California that men dreamed of years ago, this is the Pacific that Balboa looked out on from the Peak of Darien, this is the face of the earth as the Creator intended it to look.

The most difficult thing to adjust to, apparently, is peace and contentment.

What is not in the open street is false, derived, that is to say, literature.