The two friends stood for a few moments on the windy street corner, not speaking a word, as two travelers, who have lost their way, sometimes stand and admit their perplexity in silence. (O Pioneers!)

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

The condition every art requires is, not so much freedom from restriction, as freedom from adulteration and from the intrusion of foreign matter.

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

I don't want anyone reading my writing to think about style. I just want them to be in the story.

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

It is cremated youth. It is all yours--no one gave it to you.