Maybe when people longed for a thing that bad the longing made them trust in anything that might give it to them.

Doctors, by God; washing their hands, looking out windows, fiddling with dreadful things while you are stretched out on a table or half undressed on a chair.

The people dreamed and fought and slept as much as ever. And by habit they shortened their thoughts so that they would not wander out into the darkness beyond tomorrow.

I´m a stranger in a strange land.

The most fatal thing a man can do is try to stand alone.

All men are lonely. But sometimes it seems to me that we Americans are the loneliest of all. Our hunger for foreign places and new ways has been with us almost like a national disease. Our literature is stamped with a quality of longing and unrest, and our writers have been great wanderers.

How can the dead be truly dead when they still live in the souls of those who are left behind?