You can't. You just have to.

Perhaps they were right putting love into books. Perhaps it could not live anywhere else.

I suppose that people, using themselves and each other so much by words, are at least consistent in attributing wisdom to a still tongue.

An artist is a creature driven by demons. He don't know why they choose him and he's usually too busy to wonder why.

The writer in America isn't part of the culture of this country. He's like a fine dog. People like him around, but he's of no use.

When I was little there was a picture in one of our books, a dark place into which a single weak ray of light came slanting upon two faces lifted out of the shadow.

Just when do men that have different blood in them stop hating one another?