I think the whole glory of writing lies in the fact that it forces us out of ourselves and into the lives of others.

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

I think you know that when an American stays away from New York too long something happens to him. Perhaps he becomes a little provincial, a little dead and afraid.

Most people are afraid to trust their imaginations and the artist is not.

What's wrong with this egotism? If a man doesn't delight in himself and the force in him and feel that he and it are wonders, how is all life to become important to him?

Work accomplished means little. It is in the past. What we all want is the glorious and living present.

I think the whole glory of writing lies in the fact that it forces us out of ourselves and into the lives of others.