This monster of a land, this mightiest of nations, this spawn of the future, turns out to be the macrocosm of microcosm me.

I have written a great many stories and I still don't know how to go about it except to write it and take my chances.

I have wondered why is it that some people are less affected and torn by the verities of life and death that others.

I have starved and it isn't nearly as bad as is generally supposed. Four days and a half was my longest stretch. Maybe there are pains that come later. Personally I think terror is the painful part of starvation.

I have no choice of living or dying, you see, sir--but I do have a choice of how I do it. If I tell them not to fight, they will be sorry, but they will fight. If I tell them to fight, they will be glad, and I who am not a very brave man will have made them a little braver.

The curious hocus-pocus of criticism I can't take seriously. It consists in squirreling up some odd phrases and then waiting for a book to come running by.

But most important of all, the truth, that dangerous stuff, became beautiful and more precious.