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

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

Realism, in so far as the word means reality to life, is always bad art.

In the beginning when the world was young there were a great many thoughts but no such thing as truth. Man made the truths himself and each truth was a composite of a great many vague thoughts. All about in the world were truths and they were all beautiful.

People keep on getting married. Evidently hope is eternal in the human breast.

From the place by the railing at the edge of the tracks on the summer evening I return across the city to my own room. I am vividly aware of my own life that escaped the winter on the boat. How many such lives I have lived. Then I only made a dollar and a half a day and now I sometimes make more than that in a few minutes. How wonderful to be able to write words. ... Again I begin the endless game of reconstructing my own life, jerking it out of the shell that dies, striving to breathe into it beauty and meaning. ... I wonder why my life, why all lives, are not more beautiful.

I am a lover and have not found my thing to love.