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.

One may have staunch friends in one's own family, but one seldom has admirers.

The soul cannot be humbled by fasts and prayer; it must be broken by mortal sin to experience forgiveness of sin and rise to a state of grace. Otherwise, religion is nothing but dead logic.

Whatever is felt upon the page without being specifically named there — that, one might say, is created.

There are some things you learn best in calm, and some in storm.

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

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