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

I shall not die of a cold. I shall die of having lived.

The land belongs to the future.

After all, the supreme virtue in all art is soul, perhaps it is the only thing which gives art a right to be.

A work-room should be like an old shoe; no matter how shabby, it's better than a new one.

[Mark Twain] is still the rough, awkward, good-natured boy who swore at the deck hands when he was three years old. Thoroughly likeable as a good fellow, but impossible as a man of letters.

The end is nothing; the road is all.