There is something frank and joyous and young in the open face of the country. It gives itself ungrudgingly to the moods of the season, holding nothing back.

The heart of another is a dark forest, always, no matter how close it has been to one's own.

The emptiness was intense, like the stillness in a great factory when the machinery stops running.

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.

The land belongs to the future.

This is reality, whether you like it or not--all those frivolities of summer, the light and shadow, the living mask of green that trembled over everything, they were lies, and this is what was underneath. This is the truth.

Religion and art spring from the same root and are close kin.