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.

I feel that I am writing out of a full life. I am a rich man, rich in men known, in adventures had. I am rich with living.

What is to be got at to make the air sweet, the ground good under the feet, can only be got at by failure, trial, again and again and again failure.

The eighteen years he has lived seem but a moment, a breathing space in the long march of humanity. Already he hears death calling. With all his heart he wants to come close to some other human, touch someone with his hands, be touched by the hand of another.

It was a cold day but the sun was out and the trees were like great bonfires against gray distant fields and hills.

The object of art is not to make salable pictures. It is to save yourself.

I go about looking at horses and cattle. They eat grass, make love, work when they have to, bear their young. I am sick with envy of them.