The sincerity of feeling that is possible between a writer and a reader is one of the finest things I know.

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

New things are always ugly.

Sometimes a neighbor whom we have disliked a lifetime for his arrogance and conceit lets fall a single commonplace remark that shows us another side, another man, really; a man uncertain, and puzzled, and in the dark like ourselves.

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

Ah! the terror and the delight of that moment when first we fear ourselves! Until then we have not lived.

Winter lies too long in country towns; hangs on until it is stale and shabby, old and sullen.