Science has salvaged scrap metal and even found vitamins and valuable oils in refuse, but old people are extravagantly wasted.

The real thing creates its own poetry.

Poor people who had escaped from poverty as I had, feared it, hated it and fled from it all their lives. Those born rich could afford to be touched by it.

I too was frightened the first time I felt I hated my father. I felt like a criminal. But could I help it what was inside of me? I had to feel what I felt even if it killed me.

Woe is me! Bitter is me! For what is my life? Why didn't the ship go under and drown me before I came to America?

Poverty was an ornament on a learned man like a red ribbon on a white horse.

If I had never met him I would have dreamed him into being.