What a tragedy it was that the only thing age could offer to youth was its own experience, and that the experiences of others were never profitable.

Death was a beginning and not an end; it was the morning of the spirit. Tired bodies lay down to sleep and their souls wakened to the morning, rested; the first fruits of them that slept.

Every writer knows the terror of an unexpected success. How to carry on? How to repeat it?

[On fishing:] Greatest rest in the world for the brain.

There is something shameful about the death of a play. It does not die with pity, but contempt.

Conflict is the very essence of life.

Herbert used to say that he was as tight as the paper on the wall.