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.

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

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

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.

I had a world, and it slipped away from me. The War blew up more than the bodies of men....It blew ideas away.

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