This land was an enigma. It was like a horse that no one knows how to break to harness, that runs wild and kicks things to pieces.

Art, it seems to me, should simplify.

I have sometimes thought that his bursts of imaginative talk were fatal to his poetic gift. He squandered too much in the heat of personal communication.

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 is something frank and joyous and young in the open face of the country. It gives itself ungrudgingly to the moods of the season, holding nothing back.

Desire is creation, is the magical element in that process. If there were an instrument by which to measure desire, one could foretell achievement.

Personal hatred and family affection are not incompatible; they often flourish and grow strong together.