For ever and anon the soul becomes weary of the conventions that are not of it, and with a single stroke shatters the civilized lies with which it is unable to cope, and the strong arm reaches out and takes by force what it cannot win by cunning.
Wherever humanity has made that hardest of all starts and lifted itself out of mere brutality is a sacred spot.
A child's attitude toward everything is an artist's attitude.
youth, when it is hurt, likes to feel itself betrayed.
He domesticated and developed the native wild flowers. He had one hill-side solidly clad with that low-growing purple verbena which mats over the hills of New Mexico. It was like a great violet velvet mantle thrown down in the sun; all the shades that the dyers and weavers of Italy and France strove for through centuries, the violet that is full of rose colour and is yet not lavender; the blue that becomes almost pink and then retreats again into sea-dark purple—the true Episcopal colour and countless variations of it.
Today I stood taller from walking among the trees.
When kindness has left people, even for a few moments, we become afraid of them, as if their reason had left them.
A soup like this is not the work of one man. It is the result of a constantly refined tradition. There are nearly a thousand years of history in this soup.
Every artist makes himself born. It is very much harder than the other time, and longer.
Look at my papa here; he's been dead all these years, and yet he is more real to me than almost anybody else. He never goes out of my life. I talk to him and consult him all the time. The older I grow, the better I know him and the more I understand him.
One realizes that 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. In those simple relationships of loving husband and wife, affectionate sisters, children and grandmother, there are innumerable shades of sweetness and anguish which make up the pattern of our lives day by day, though they are not down in the list of subjects from which the conventional novelist works.
Religion and art spring from the same root and are close kin.
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.
How terrible it was to love people when you could not really share their lives!
Only the stupid and the phlegmatic should teach.
The air was cool enough to make the warm sun pleasant on one's back and shoulders, and so clear that the eye could follow a hawk up and up, into the blazing blue depths of the sky.
Old men are like that, you know. It makes them feel important to think they are in love with somebody.
Youth, art, love, dreams, true-heartedness - why must they go out of the summer world into darkness?
The summer moon hung full in the sky. For the time being it was the great fact of the world.
Personal hatred and family affection are not incompatible; they often flourish and grow strong together.
They ravaged neither the rivers nor the forest, and if they irrigated, they took as little water as would serve their needs. The land and all that it bore they treated with consideration; not attempting to improve it, they never desecrated it.
Whatever is felt upon the page without being specifically named there — that, one might say, is created.
Of course Nebraska is a storehouse of literary material. Everywhere is a storehouse of literary material. If a true artist were born in a pigpen and raised in a sty, he would still find plenty of inspiration for his work. The only need is the eye to see.
Artistic growth is, more than it is anything else, a refining of the sense of truthfulness.
Love itself draws on a woman nearly all the bad luck in the world
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