I travel light; as light, that is, as a man can travel who will still carry his body around because of its sentimental value.
My trouble is I'm the sort of writer who only finds out what he's getting at by the time he's got to the end of it.
It's always our touches of vanity that manage to betray us.
In our plain defects we already know the brotherhood of man.
Indulgences, not fulfillment, is what the world Permits us.
Day's work is still to do, Whatever the day's doom.