That's how it is with books, isn't it: They're not in a hurry. They'll wait for you till you're ready. People empty me. I have to go away to refill.

A love like that was a serious illness, an illness from which you never entirely recover.

Too often the people complain that they have done nothing with their lives and then they wait for somebody to tell them that this isn't so.

We're all going to die, all of us, what a circus!

we drove on and on, past little villages and both good things and bad things were happening to the people in those villages too, but I still was nothing but arms and ears and eyes and maybe there'd be either some good luck for me or more death tomorrow.

Censorship is the tool of those who have the need to hide actualities from themselves and from others.

Love came hard and very seldom. When it did it was usually for the wrong reasons.