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

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

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

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

A man needs a purpose for real health.

The lives of people are like young trees in a forest. They are being choked by climbing vines. The vines are old thoughts and beliefs planted by dead men.

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