Religion and art spring from the same root and are close kin.

In Haverford on the Platte the townspeople still talk of Lucy Gayheart.

The emptiness was intense, like the stillness in a great factory when the machinery stops running.

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

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.

Money is a protection, a cloak; it can buy one quiet, and some sort of dignity.

The dead might as well try to speak to the living as the old to the young.