The fact, and the intuition or logic about the fact, are severe coordinates in fiction. In the short story they must cross with hair-line precision.

All art, in spite of the struggles of some critics to prove otherwise, is based on emotion and projects emotion.

No more pronouncements on lousy verse. No more hidden competition. No more struggling not to be a square.

O remember In your narrowing dark hours That more things move Than blood in the heart.

... how much of our inner substance is it good for us to give to public griefs? The whole modern tendency to agonize over the suffering of the entire globe is surely something new.

But is there any reason to believe that a woman's spiritual fibre is less sturdy than a man's? Is it not possible for a woman to come to terms with herself if not with the world; to withdraw more and more, as time goes on, her own personality from her productions; to stop childish fears of death and eschew charming rebellions against facts?

The measured blood beats out the year's delay.