Many people seem to think that art is a luxury to be imported and tacked on to life. Art springs out of the very stuff that life is made of. Most of our young authors start to write a story and make a few observations from nature to add local color. The results are invariably false and hollow. Art must spring out of the fullness and richness of life.

There are only two or three human stories, and they go on repeating themselves as fiercely as if they had never happened before.

They ravaged neither the rivers nor the forest, and if they irrigated, they took as little water as would serve their needs. The land and all that it bore they treated with consideration; not attempting to improve it, they never desecrated it.

Youth, art, love, dreams, true-heartedness - why must they go out of the summer world into darkness?

No one can build his security upon the nobleness of another person.

A creative writer can do his best only with what lies within the range and character of his deepest sympathies.

I like trees because they seem more resigned to the way they have to live than other things do.