But you haven't never loved God nor even nair person. You hard and tough as cowhide. But just the same I knows you. This afternoon you going to roam all over the place without never being satisfied. You going to traipse all around like you haves to find something lost. You going to work yourself up with excitement. Your heart going to beat hard enough to kill you because you don't love and don't have peace. And then some day you going to bust loose and be ruined.

His own life seemed so solitary, a fragile column supporting nothing amidst the wreckage of the years.

The thinking mind is best controlled by the imagination.

I have more to say than Hemingway, and God knows, I say it better than Faulkner.

I live with the people I create and it has always made my essential loneliness less keen.

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.

I want - I want - I want - was all that she could think about - but just what this real want was she did not know.