Literature must spring from the deep and submerged humus of our life.

It was the bumble bee and the butterfly who survived, not the dinosaur.

An abyss seems to have opened between the intellectual cosmopolites of culture and the people, hungry for word and meaning.

These are the stories that never, never die, that are carried like seed into a new country, are told to you and me and make in us new and lasting strengths.

You can tell by looking at most people that the world remains a stone to them and a closed door.

What happens in a strike happens not to one person alone.... It is a crisis with meaning and potency for all and prophetic of a future. The elements in crisis are the same, there is a fermentation that is identical. The elements are these: a body of men, women and children, hungry; an organization of feudal employers out to break the back of unionization; and the government Labor Board sent to "negotiate" between this hunger and this greed.

Each generation must go further than the last or what's the use in it?