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.

I think that those of us who are what are called intellectuals make a terrible mistake in overvaluing the yen we have for the arts, books, etc. There is a sweet, fine quality in life that has nothing to do with this, and more and more I find myself valuing myself with those people.

The thing of course, is to make yourself alive. Most people remain all of their lives in a stupor.

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.

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