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

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

Most people are afraid to trust their imaginations and the artist is not.

The machines men are so intent on making have carried them very far from the old sweet things.

As time passed and he grew to know people better, he began to think of himself as an extraordinary man, one set apart from his fellows. He wanted terribly to make his life a thing of great importance, and as he looked about at his fellow men and saw how like clods they lived it seemed to him that he could not bear to become also such a clod.

All good New Orleanians go to look at the Mississippi at least once a day. At night it is like creeping into a dark bedroom to look at a sleeping child--something of that sort--gives you the same warm nice feeling, I mean.

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