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.

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.

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?

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.

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

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