The story [Henny-Penny] has the best opening in all literature-"The sky is falling," cried Henny-Penny, "and a piece of it fell on my tail.

People are felt rather than seen after the first few moments.

I suffer as always from the fear of putting down the first line. It is amazing the terrors, the magics, the prayers, the straightening shyness that assails one.

I hold that a writer who does not passionately believe in the perfectibility of man has no dedication nor any membership in literature.

Prayer never brought in no side-meat. Takes a shoat to bring in pork.

Sometimes when she was alone, and she knew she was alone, she permitted her mind to play in a garden, and she smiled.

Our species is the only creative species, and it has only one creative instrument, the individual mind and spirit of man. Nothing was ever created by two men. There are no good collaborations, whether in music, in art, in poetry, in mathematics, in philosophy. Once the miracle of creation has taken place, the group can build and extend it, but the group never invents anything. The preciousness lies in the lonely mind of a man.