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

Many people must live and die alone, even in Winesburg.

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

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

If people did not want their stories told, it would be better for them to keep away from me.

What is to be got at to make the air sweet, the ground good under the feet, can only be got at by failure, trial, again and again and again failure.

Work accomplished means little. It is in the past. What we all want is the glorious and living present.