I have seldom written a story, long or short, that I did not have to write and rewrite. There are single stories of mine that have taken me ten or twelve years to get written.

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

The writer, an old man with a white moustache, had some difficulty getting into bed.

The fruition of the year had come and the night should have been fine with a moon in the sky and the crisp sharp promise of frost in the air, but it wasn't that way. It rained and little puddles of water shone under the street lamps on Main Street. In the woods in the darkness beyond the Fair Ground water dripped from the black trees.

There is a time in the life of every boy when he for the first time takes the backward view of life. Perhaps that is the moment when he crosses the line into manhood.

In youth there are always two forces fighting in people. The warm unthinking little animal struggles against the thing that reflects and remembers

Friends you have, people you love, die and are born again.