The New England spirit does not seek solutions in a crowd; raw light and solitariness are less dreaded than welcomed as enhancers of our essential selves.
All love is betrayal, in that it flatters life. The loveless man is best armed.
There is no pleasing New Englanders, my dear, their soil is all rocks and their hearts are bloodless absolutes.
Government [is] an illusion the governed should not encourage.
You can never get the smell of smoke out. Like the smell of failure in life.
The literary scene is a kind of Medusa’s raft, small and sinking, and one’s instinct when a newcomer tries to clamber aboard is to step on his fingers.