Really, trees are nearly as important as men, and much better behaved.
But questioning does not mean the end of loving, and loving does not mean the abnegation of intelligence
Remorse ... is one of the many afflictions for which time finds a cure.
Why, why, when one writes, does a sort of shackle bind one's imagination? I become conscious of a deadening mediocrity, perhaps a form of mental cowardice, and I long to break free, to let my imagination take wings. It doesn't - yet.
Those who prepare for war get it.
What with the reviews of critics, the sarcasms of one's friends, the reproaches of one's own taste, there's precious little peace after publishing a book.