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

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

What if - what if Life itself were the sweetheart?

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.

The great fact was the land itself, which seemed to overwhelm the little beginnings of human society that struggled in its sombre wastes.

The history of every country begins in the heart of a man or a woman.

The only thing very noticeable about Nebraska was that it was still, all day long, Nebraska.