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

Resentment is the most precious flower of poverty.

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.

There is no stillness like the quiet of the first cold nights in the fall.

A writer soon discovers he has no single identity but lives the lives of all the people he creates and his weathers are independent of the actual day around him. I live with the people I create and it has always made my essential loneliness less keen.

The human heart is a lonely hunter-but the search for us southerners is more anguished.

Passion is more important than justice.