She was what we used to call a suicide blonde - dyed by her own hand.

A novel is balanced between a few true impressions and the multitude of false ones that make up most of what we call life.

A plan relieves you of the torment of choice.

Humankind struggles with collective powers for its freedom, the individual struggles with dehumanization for the possession of his soul.

The dream of man's heart ... is that life may complete in significant pattern.

Art -- the fresh feeling, new harmony, the transforming magic which by means of myth brings back the scattered distracted soul from its modern chaos -- art, not politics, is the remedy.

All human accomplishment has this same origin, identically. Imagination is a force of nature. Is this not enough to make a person full of ecstasy? Imagination, imagination, imagination! It converts to actual. It sustains, it alters, it redeems!