What he loved in horses was what he loved in men, the blood and the heat of the blood that ran them. All his reverence and all his fondness and all the leanings of his life were for the ardenhearted and they would always be so and never be otherwise. (All the Pretty Horses)

People don't pay attention. And then one day there's an accounting. And after that, nothing is the same.

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 nights were blinding cold and casket black and the long reach of the morning had a terrible silence to it.

He can give me what you cannot. Death is not a lover. Oh yes, he is.

You never know what worse luck your bad luck has saved you from.

Finally he said that if men drink the blood of God yet they do not understand the seriousness of what they do. He said that men wish to be serious but they do not understand how to be so. Between their acts and their ceremonies lies the world and in this world the storms blow and the trees twist in the wind and all the animals that God has made go to and fro yet this world men do not see. They see the acts of their own hands or they see that which they name and call out to one another but the world between is invisible to them