Ants in the house seem to be, not intruders, but the owners.
I do not understand how anyone can live without some small place of enchantment to turn to.
The best fish in the world are of course those one catches oneself.
Living was no longer the grief behind him, but the anxiety ahead.
For myself, the Creek satisfies a thing that had gone hungry and unfed since childhood days. I am often lonely. Who is not? But I should be lonelier in the heart of a city.
Personal publicity is apt to be dangerous to any writer's integrity; for the moment he begins to fancy himself as quite a person, a taint creeps into his work.