A man needs a purpose for real health.

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

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

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 eighteen years he has lived seem but a moment, a breathing space in the long march of humanity. Already he hears death calling. With all his heart he wants to come close to some other human, touch someone with his hands, be touched by the hand of another.

It was a cold day but the sun was out and the trees were like great bonfires against gray distant fields and hills.

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.