Human relationships are the tragic necessity of human life; that they can never be wholly satisfactory, that every ego is half the time greedily seeking them, and half the time pulling away from them.
The sincerity of feeling that is possible between a writer and a reader is one of the finest things I know.
Imagination, which is a quality writers must have, does not mean the ability to weave pretty stories out of nothing. In the right sense, imagination is a response to what is going on — a sensitiveness to which outside things appeal. It is a composition of sympathy and observation.
Sometimes a neighbor whom we have disliked a lifetime for his arrogance and conceit lets fall a single commonplace remark that shows us another side, another man, really; a man uncertain, and puzzled, and in the dark like ourselves.
Life was so short that it meant nothing at all unless it were continually reinforced by something that endured; unless the shadows of individual existence came and went against a background that held together.
I like trees because they seem more resigned to the way they have to live than other things do.
The pale, cold light of the winter sunset did not beautify - it was like the light of truth itself.
Hunger is a powerful incentive to introspection.
Some people's lives are affected by what happens to their person or their property; but for others fate is what happens to their feelings and their thoughts -- that and nothing more.
There is often a good deal of the child left in people who have had to grow up too soon.
Personal life becomes paler as the imaginative life becomes richer.
No one can build his security upon the nobleness of another person.
The world is little, people are little, human life is little. There is only one big thing — desire.
Writing ought either to be the manufacture of stories for which there is a market demand - a business as safe and commendable as making soap or breakfast foods - or it should be an art, which is always a search for something for which there is no market demand, something new and untried, where the values are intrinsic and have nothing to do with standardized values.
The voice is a wild thing. It can't be bred in captivity.
I wondered if the life that was right for one was ever right for two!
It has long been a tradition among novel writers that a book must end by everybody getting just what they wanted, or if the conventional happy ending was impossible, then it must be a tragedy in which one or both should die. In real life very few of us get what we want, our tragedies don't kill us, but we go on living them year after year, carrying them with us like a scar on an old wound.
life hurrying past us and running away, too strong to stop, too sweet to lose.
The air and the earth interpenetrated in the warm gusts of spring; the soil was full of sunlight, and the sunlight full of red dust. The air one breathed was saturated with earthy smells, and the grass under foot had a reflection of the blue sky in it.
Our tree became the talking tree of the fairy tale; legends and stories nestled like birds in its branches.
The sky was a midnight-blue, like warm, deep, blue water, and the moon seemed to lie on it like a water-lily, floating forward with an invisible current.
All Southern women wished of their menfolk was simply to be 'like Paris handsome and like Hector brave'.
On the farm the weather was the great fact, and men's affairs went on underneath it, as the streams creep under the ice.
Men are all right for friends, but as soon as you marry them they turn into cranky old fathers, even the wild ones. They begin to tell you what's sensible and what's foolish, and want you to stick at home all the time. I prefer to be foolish when I feel like it, and be accountable to nobody.
Oh, that's the beauty of the rose, that it blossoms and dies.
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