The fruition of the year had come and the night should have been fine with a moon in the sky and the crisp sharp promise of frost in the air, but it wasn't that way. It rained and little puddles of water shone under the street lamps on Main Street. In the woods in the darkness beyond the Fair Ground water dripped from the black trees.

He thought about himself and to the young that always brings sadness.

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.

Everyone knows of the talking artists. Throughout all of the known history of the world they have gathered in rooms and talked. They talk of art and are passionately,almost feverishly, in earnest about it. They think it matters much more than it does.

When a man publishes a book, there are so many stupid things said that he declares he'll never do it again. The praise is almost always worse than the criticism.

I think the whole glory of writing lies in the fact that it forces us out of ourselves and into the lives of others.

The disease we all have and that we have to fight against all our lives is ... the disease of self.