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

I go about looking at horses and cattle. They eat grass, make love, work when they have to, bear their young. I am sick with envy of them.

I have seldom written a story, long or short, that I did not have to write and rewrite. There are single stories of mine that have taken me ten or twelve years to get written.

What's wrong with this egotism? If a man doesn't delight in himself and the force in him and feel that he and it are wonders, how is all life to become important to him?

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

In youth there are always two forces fighting in people. The warm unthinking little animal struggles against the thing that reflects and remembers

It might be that women who have beennurses should not marry physicians. They have too much respect for physicians, are taughtto have too much respect