Winter lies too long in country towns; hangs on until it is stale and shabby, old and sullen.

I've seen it before. There are women who spread ruin through no fault of theirs, just by being too beautiful, too ful of life and love. They can't help it. Poeple come to them as people go to a warm fire in winter.

Personal life becomes paler as the imaginative life becomes richer.

If there were no girls like them in the world, there would be no poetry

Every fine story must leave in the mind of the sensitive reader an intangible residuum of pleasure, a cadence, a quality of voice that is exclusively the writer's own, individual, unique.

Ah! the terror and the delight of that moment when first we fear ourselves! Until then we have not lived.

If we never arrived anywhere, it did not matter. Between that earth and that sky i felt erased, blotted out. I did not say my prayers that night: here, i felt what would be would be.