Only the few know the sweetness of the twisted apples.

Wait and wait. Most people's lives are spent waiting.

Everyone knows of the talking artists. Throughout all of the known history of the world they have gathered in rooms and talked. They talk of art and are passionately,almost feverishly, in earnest about it. They think it matters much more than it does.

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

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

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'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?