It may be true of all relationships, not only between fathers and sons, but between men and women. Nothing seems fixed. Everything is always changing. We seem to have very little control over our emotional life.

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.

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

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.

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 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.

It is no use. I find it impossible to work with security staring me in the face.