The art of writing is to explain the complications of the human soul with the simplicity that can be universally understood.

I'm me and nobody else; and whatever people think I am or say I am, that's what I'm not, because they don't know a bloody thing about me.

Whatever people think I am or say I am, that's what I am not.

Well, it's a good life and a good world, all said and done, if you don't weaken.

It's a treat being a runner, out in the world by yourself with not a soul to make you bad-tempered or tell you what to do.

The art of writing is to explain the complications of the human soul with the simplicity that can be universally understood.

For it was Saturday night, the best and bingiest glad-time of the week, one of the fifty-two holidays in the slow-turning Big Wheel of the year, a violent preamble to a prostrate Sabbath. Piled up passions were exploded on Saturday night, and the effect of a week's monotonous graft in the factory was swilled out of your system in a burst of goodwill. You followed the motto of 'be drunk and be happy,' kept your crafty arms around female waists, and felt the beer going beneficially down into the elastic capacity of your guts.