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.

There is within every human being a deep well of thinking over which a heavy iron lid is kept clamped.

In that high place in the darkness the two oddly sensitive human atoms held each other tightly and waited. In the mind of each was the same thought. "I have come to this lonely place and here is this other," was the substance of the thing felt.

...she thought that something unexpressed in herself came forth and became a part of an unexpressed something in them.

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

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.

There is this thing called life. We live it, not as we intend or wish, but as we are driven on by forces outside and inside ourselves.