I have found that each of my books has developed out of something I have written in a previous book. Some thought evidently unfinished.

Men had reached into the scrub and along its boundaries, had snatched what they could get and had gone away, uneasy in that vast indifferent peace; for a man was nothing, crawling ant-like among the myrtle bushes under the pines. Now they were gone, it was as though they had never been. The silence of the scrub was primordial. The wood-thrush crying across it might have been the first bird in the world-or the last.

A dead tree, falling, made less havoc than a live one. It seemed as though a live tree went down fighting, like an animal.

It is impossible to be among the woods animals on their own ground without a feeling of expanding one's own world, as when any foreign country is visited.

Words began fights and words ended them.

no case of libel by a negro against a white would even reach a southern court.

Information can be passed from one to another, like a silver dollar. There's absolutely no wisdom except what you learn for yourself.