It may be that the life I desire for her no longer even exists, yet I know what she does not. That there is nothing to lose.

The carrion birds sat about the topmost corners of the houses with their wings outstretched in attitudes of exhortation like dark little bishops.

I guess you ought to be careful about cussin the dead. I would say at the least there probably ain't no luck in it.

The world was new each day for God so made it daily. Yet it contained within it all the evils as before, no more, no less.

He believed in God even if he was doubtful of men's claims to know God's mind. But that a God unable to forgive was no God at all.

My perfect day is sitting in a room with some blank paper. That's heaven. That's gold, and anything else is just a waste of time.

Looking over the country with those sunken eyes as if the world out there had been altered or made suspect by what he'd seen of it elsewhere. As if he might never see it right again. Or worse did see it right at last. See it as it had always been, would forever be.