I feel as if I had opened a book and found roses of yesterday sweet and fragrant, between its leaves.

A cold in the head in June is an immoral thing.

Nathan always believed his wife was trying to poison him but he didn't seem to mind. He said it made life kind of exciting.

Don't be led away by those howls about realism. Remember-pine woods are just as real as pigsties and a darn sight pleasanter to be in.

What care I if it be "wild and improbable" and "lacking in literary art"? I refuse to be any longer hampered by such canons of criticism. The one essential thing I demand of a book is that it should interest me. If it does, I forgive it every other fault.

It only seems as if you are doing something when you're worrying.

Heretics are wicked, but they're mighty int'resting. It's jest that they've got sorter lost looking for God, being under the impression that He's hard to find - which He ain't never.