We don't belong to each other: he's an independent, and so am I.
The average personality re-shapes frequently, every few years even our bodies undergo a complete overhaul-desirable or not, it is a natural thing that we should change.
Randolph, he said, do you know something? I'm very happy. To which his friend made no reply. The reason for this happiness seemed to be simply that he did not feel unhappy; rather, he knew all through...
Perhaps, like most of us in a foreign country, he was incapable of placing people, selecting a frame for their picture, as he would at home; therefore all Americans had to be judged in a pretty equal...
Once a thing is set to happen, all you can do is hope it won't. Or will-depending. As long as you live, there’s always something waiting, and even if it’s bad, and you know it's bad, what can you do?...
Now listen to me, Buddy: there is only one unpardonable sin - deliberate cruelty. All else can be forgiven. That, never.
Never love a wild thing...If you let yourself love a wild thing. You'll end up looking at the sky.
June, July, all through the warm months she hibernated like a winter animal who did not know spring had come and gone.
It is no shame to have a dirty face- the shame comes when you keep it dirty.
Don't wanna sleep, don't wanna die, just wanna go a-travellin' through the pastures of the sky
That's not writing that's typing.
If there is no mystery, for the artist, to solve inside of his art, then there's no point in it. . . . for me, every act of art is the act of solving a mystery.
Randolph, he said, were you ever as young as me? And Randolph said: I was never so old.
In fact, I was a kind of Hershey Bar whore - there wasn't much I wouldn't do for a nickel's worth of chocolate.
If some wizard would like to give me a present, let him give me a bottle filled with the voices of that kitchen, the ha ha ha and the fire whispering, a bottle brimming with its buttery sugary smells...
I'm praying for you, Mary. I want you to live forever.
Writing stopped being fun when I discovered the difference between good writing and bad and, even more terrifying, the difference between it and true art. And after that, the whip came down.
Love is a chain of love as nature is a chain of life.
You got to want it to be good, and I don't want it.
[C]locks indeed must have thier sacrifice: what is death but an offering to time and eternity?