Yes, and because we grow old we become more and more the stuff our forbears put into us. I can feel his savagery strengthen in me. We think we are so individual and so misunderstood when we are young; but the nature our strain of blood carries is inside there, waiting, like our skeleton.

That is happiness; to be dissolved into something complete and great.

Only solitary men know the full joys of frienship. Others have their family; but to a solitary and an exile, his friends are everything.

The end is nothing; the road is all.

Thirty or forty years ago, in one those grey towns along the Burlington railroad which are so much greyer to-day than they were then, there was a house well know from Omaha to Denver for its hospitality and for a certain charm of atmosphere.

Every artist makes himself born. It is very much harder than the other time, and longer.

Art, it seems to me, should simplify.