The world that was not mine yesterday now lies spread out at my feet, a splendor. I seem, in the middle of the night, to have returned to the world of apples, the orchards of Heaven. Perhaps I should take my problems to a shrink, or perhaps I should enjoy the apples that I have, streaked with color like the evening sky.

It was a splendid summer morning and it seemed as if nothing could go wrong.

How can a people who do not mean to understand death hope to understand love, and who will sound the alarm?

Homesickness is nothing. Fifty percent of the people in the world are homesick all the time.

I don't like to see all my energies, all of my youth, wasted in fur coats and radios and slipcovers.

For me, a page of good prose is where one hears the rain and the noise of battle. It has the power to give grief or universality that lends it a youthful beauty.

For me a page of good prose is where one hears the rain. A page of good prose is when one hears the noise of battle.... A page of good prose seems to me the most serious dialogue that well-informed and intelligent men and women carry on today in their endeavor to make sure that the fires of this planet burn peaceably.