The summer moon hung full in the sky. For the time being it was the great fact of the world.

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

The irregular and intimate quality of things made entirely by the human hand.

The stupid believe that to be truthful is easy; only the artist, the great artist, knows how difficult it is.

How terrible it was to love people when you could not really share their lives!

The great fact in life, the always possible escape from dullness, was the lake. The sun rose out of it, the day began there; it was like an open door that nobody could shut. The land and all its dreariness could never close in on you. You had only to look at the lake, and you knew you would soon be free.

We all like people who do things, even if we only see their faces on cigar-box lids.