It was a cold, disapproving gaze, such as a fastidious luncher who was not fond of caterpillars might have directed at one which he had discovered in his portion of salad...

It was one of those cold, clammy, accusing sort of eyes--the kind that makes you reach up to see if your tie is straight: and he looked at me as I were some so…

Dark hair fell in a sweep over his forehead. He looked like a man who would write vers libre, as indeed he did.

He trusted neither of them as far as he could spit, and he was a poor spitter, lacking both distance and control.

I write just because the fire of my emotion is burning. Had I not, I would not have been able to find peace.

One of the objections I have against Campbell's Astounding was that there was too little love in it. It was a very loveless magazine. They never took enough ac…

Our live experiences, fixed in aphorisms, stiffen into cold epigrams. Our heart's blood, as we write it, turns to mere dull ink.