What was any art but a mould in which to imprison for a moment the shining elusive element which is life itself - life hurrying past us and running away, too strong to stop, too sweet to lose.
Winter lies too long in country towns; hangs on until it is stale and shabby, old and sullen.
Some memories are realities, and are better than anything that can ever happen to one again.
To note an artist's limitations is but to define his talent. A reporter can write equally well about everything that is presented to his view, but a creative writer can do his best only with what lies within the range and character of his deepest sympathies.
Give the people a new word and they think they have a new fact.
A work-room should be like an old shoe; no matter how shabby, it's better than a new one.