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

An artist's saddest secrets are those that have to do with his artistry.

I kept as still as I could. Nothing happened. I did not expect anything to happen. I was something that lay under the sun and felt it, like the pumpkins, and I did not want to be anything more. I was entirely happy. Perhaps we feel like that when we die and become a part of something entire, whether it is sun and air, or goodness and knowledge. At any rate, that is happiness; to be dissolved into something complete and great. When it comes to one, it comes as naturally as sleep.

If [the writer] achieves anything noble, anything enduring, it must be by giving himself absolutely to his material. And this gift of sympathy is his great gift; is the fine thing in him that alone can make his work fine.

The prayers of all good people are good.

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

Oh, that's the beauty of the rose, that it blossoms and dies.