People Have To Snatch At Happiness When

I Wanted To Walk Straight On Through The Red Grass And Over The Edge Of The World, Which Could Not Be Very Far Away. The Light And Air Abot Me Told Me That The World Ended Here: Only The Ground And Sun And Sky Were Left, And If One Went A Little Farther There Would Only Be Sun And Sky, And One Would Float Off Into Them, Like The Tawny Hawks Which Sailed Over Our Heads Making Slow Shadows On The Grass.

Pittsburgh Was Even More Vital, More Creative, More Hungry For Culture Than New York. Pittsburgh Was The Birthplace Of My Writing.

On The Farm The Weather Was The Great Fact, And Men's Affairs Went On Underneath It, As The Streams Creep Under The Ice.

Love Itself Draws On A Woman Nearly All The Bad Luck In The World

If [the Writer] Achieves Anything Noble, Anything Enduring, It Must Be By Giving Himself Absolutely To His Material. And This Gift Of Sympathy Is His Great Gift; Is The Fine Thing In Him That Alone Can Make His Work Fine.