There was only - spring itself, the throb of it, the light restlessness, the vital essence of it everywhere; in the sky, in the swift clouds, in the pale sunshine, and in the warm high wind - rising suddenly, sinking suddenly, impulsive ... If I had been tossed down blindfold on that red prairie, I should have known that it was spring.

What if - what if Life itself were the sweetheart?

Loyal? As loyal as anyone who plays second fiddle ever is.

I tell you there is such a thing as creative hate.

People live through such pain only once. Pain comes again—but it finds a tougher surface.

life hurrying past us and running away, too strong to stop, too sweet to lose.

A child's attitude toward everything is an artist's attitude.