I tell you there is such a thing as creative hate.

Merely having seen the season change in a country gave one the sense of having been there for a long time.

The sky was a midnight-blue, like warm, deep, blue water, and the moon seemed to lie on it like a water-lily, floating forward with an invisible current.

Yes, and because we grow old we become more and more the stuff our forbears put into us. I can feel his savagery strengthen in me. We think we are so individual and so misunderstood when we are young; but the nature our strain of blood carries is inside there, waiting, like our skeleton.

Artistic growth is, more than it is anything else, a refining of the sense of truthfulness.

Some memories are realities, and are better than anything that can ever happen to one again.

There was nothing but land; not a country at all, but the material out of which countries are made.