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

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.

I think the whole glory of writing lies in the fact that it forces us out of ourselves and into the lives of others.

Love is like a wind stirring the grass beneath trees on a black night,' he had said. 'You must not try to make love definite. It is the divine accident of life. If you try to be definite and sure about it and to live beneath the trees, where soft night winds blow, the long hot day of disappointment comes swiftly and the gritty dust from passing wagons gathers upon lips inflamed and made tender by kisses.

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

I am a lover and have not found my thing to love. That is a big point if you know enough to realize what I mean. It makes my destruction inevitable, you see. There are few who understand that.

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