Realism, in so far as the word means reality to life, is always bad art.

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 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.

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

Dare to be strong and courageous. That is the road. Venture anything. Be brave enough to dare to be loved. Be something more than man or woman. Be Tandy.

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

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