I see a green tree. And to me it is green. And you would call the tree green also. And we would agree on this. But is the colour you see as green the same colour I see as green?

I was like a cat always climbing the wrong tree.

She wished there was some place where she could go to hum it out loud. Some kind of music was too private to sing in a house cram fall of people. It was funny, too, how lonesome a person could be in a crowded house.

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

I´m a stranger in a strange land.

Nothing is so musical as the sound of pouring bourbon for the first drink on a Sunday morning. Not Bach or Schubert or any of those masters.

Sunday afternoons are the longest afternoons of all.