conversation is like a dear little baby that is brought in to be handed round. You must rock it, nurse it, keep it on the move if you want it to keep smiling.

I want to be all that I am capable of becoming.

As in the physical world, so in the spiritual world, pain does not last forever.

Why! Why! Why is the middle-class so stodgy - so utterly without a sense of humor?

Do you remember your childhood? I am always coming across these marvelous accounts by writers who declare that they remember 'everything.' I certainly don't. The dark stretches, the blanks, are much bigger than the bright glimpses. I seem to have spent most of my time like a plant in a cupboard.

To long for everything: sorrow; to accept everything: joy.

I don't believe other people are ever as foolishly excited as I am while I'm working. How could they be? Writers would have to live in trees.