The cities swept about me like dead leaves, leaves that were brightly colored but torn away from the branches. I would have stopped, but I was pursued by something. It always came upon me unawares, taking me altogether by surprise. Perhaps it was a familiar bit of music. Perhaps it was only a piece of transparent glass.

Being a memory play, it is dimly lighted, it is sentimental. It is not realistic.

It's hard enough for me to write what I want to write without me trying to write what you say they want me to write which I don't want to write.

I try to work every day because you have no refuge but writing. When you're going through a period of unhappiness, a broken love affair, the death of someone you love, or some other disorder in your life, then you have no refuge but writing.

How long does it have to go on? This punishment? Haven't I done time enough, haven't I served my term? can't I apply for a-pardon?

The work of a writer, his continuing work, depends for breath of life on a certain privacy of heart.

If I got rid of my demons, I’d lose my angels.