The sound of the freezing of snow over the land seemed to roar deep into the earth. There was no moon. The stars, almost too many of them to be true, came forward so brightly that it was as if they were falling with the swiftness of the void. As the stars came nearer, the sky retreated deeper and deeper into the night color. The layers of the Border Range, indistinguishable one from another, cast their heaviness at the skirt of the starry sky in a blackness grave and somber enough to communicate their mass. The whole of the night scene came together in a clear, tranquil harmony.

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Our language is primarily for expressing human goodness and beauty.

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I suppose even a woman's hatred is a kind of love.

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And I can't complain. After all, only women are able really to love.

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Put your soul in the palm of my hand for me to look at, like a crystal jewel. I'll sketch it in words.

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The labor into which a heart has poured its whole love--where will it have its say, to excite and inspire, and when?

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A poetess who had died young of cancer had said in one of her poems that for her, on sleepless nights, 'the night offers toads and black dogs and corpses of the drowned.

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They were words that came out of nothing, but they seemed to him somehow significant. He muttered them over again.

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I wonder what the retirement age is in the novel business. The day you die.

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It's remarkable how we go on year after year, doing the same old things. We get tired and bored, and ask when they'll come for us

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