I cannot remember back to a year in which I did not consider myself to be a writer, and the younger I was the bigger that capital 'W.

Betsy. The great war is on but I hope ours is over. Please come home. Joe.

I'm finished with something, but I'm not beginning anything. That's wrong. When you finish something, you ought always to begin something new.

The wastes of snow on the hill were ghostly in the moonlight. The stars were piercingly bright.

It was June, and the world smelled of roses. The sunshine was like powdered gold over the grassy hillside.

You might as well learn right now, you two, that the poorest guide you can have in life is what people will say.

One strain could call up the quivering expectancy of Christmas Eve, childhood, joy and sadness, the lonely wonder of a star