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.

It may be life is only worthwhile at moments. Perhaps that is all we ought to expect.

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.

Many people must live and die alone, even in Winesburg.

It is all right you're saying you do not need other people, but there are a lot of people who need you.

The writer, an old man with a white moustache, had some difficulty getting into bed.