Love is like a wind stirring the grass beneath trees on a black night,' he had said. 'You must not try to make love definite. It is the divine accident of life. If you try to be definite and sure about it and to live beneath the trees, where soft night winds blow, the long hot day of disappointment comes swiftly and the gritty dust from passing wagons gathers upon lips inflamed and made tender by kisses.

You won’t arrive. It is an endless search.

It is no use. I find it impossible to work with security staring me in the face.

You can make a killing as a playwright in America, but you can't make a living.

A man needs a purpose for real health.

I feel that I am writing out of a full life. I am a rich man, rich in men known, in adventures had. I am rich with living.

I am a lover and have not found my thing to love. That is a big point if you know enough to realize what I mean. It makes my destruction inevitable, you see. There are few who understand that.