On the trees are only a few gnarled apples that the pickers have rejected. They look like the knuckles of Doctor Reefy's hands. One nibbles at them and they are delicious. Into a little round place at the side of the apple has been gathered all its sweetness. One runs from tree to tree over the frosted ground picking the gnarled, twisted apples and filling his pockets with them. Only the few know the sweetness of the twisted apples.

I feel that I am writing out of a full life. I am a rich man, rich in men known, in adventures had. I am rich with living.

...she thought that something unexpressed in herself came forth and became a part of an unexpressed something in them.

I am a lover and have not found my thing to love.

Everyone in the world is Christ and they are all crucified.

People keep on getting married. Evidently hope is eternal in the human breast.

You can make a killing as a playwright in America, but you can't make a living.