The American mind, unlike the English, is not formed by books, but, as Carl Sandburg once said to me, by newspapers and the Bible.

Those of our writers who have possessed a vivid personal talent have been paralyzed by a want of social background.

Genius and virtue are to be more often found clothed in gray than in peacock bright.

How delightful is the company of generous people, who overlook trifles and keep their minds instinctively fixed on whatever is good and positive in the world around them.

Longfellow is to poetry what the barrel-organ is to music.

Nothing is so soothing to our self-esteem as to find our bad traits in our forebears. It seems to absolve us.

As against having beautiful workshops, studies, etc., one writes best in a cellar on a rainy day.