The disease we all have and that we have to fight against all our lives is ... the disease of self.

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

You must try to forget all you have learned,” said the old man. “You must begin to dream. From this time on you must shut your ears to the roaring of the voices.

The writing of words can lead to all sorts of absurdities.

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.

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.

I think you know that when an American stays away from New York too long something happens to him. Perhaps he becomes a little provincial, a little dead and afraid.