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.

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

If people did not want their stories told, it would be better for them to keep away from me.

I had a world, and it slipped away from me. The War blew up more than the bodies of men....It blew ideas away.

He thought about himself and to the young that always brings sadness.

All good New Orleanians go to look at the Mississippi at least once a day. At night it is like creeping into a dark bedroom to look at a sleeping child--something of that sort--gives you the same warm nice feeling, I mean.

The writing of words can lead to all sorts of absurdities.