In my medicine cabinet, the winter fly has died of old age.

I'm going to marry my novels and have little short stories for children.

The dream is already ended and we're already awake in the golden eternity.

And there in the blue air I saw for the first time, far off, the great snowy tops of the Rocky Mountains. I had to get to Denver at once.

Write in recollection and amazement for yourself.

Writing at least is a silent meditation even though you’re going a hundred miles an hour.

I hope it is true that a man can die and yet not only live in others but give them life, and not only life, but that great consciousness of life.