There is no hunting like the hunting of man, and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never care for anything else thereafter.

For him it was a dark passage which led to nowhere, then to nowhere, then again to nowhere, once again to nowhere, always and forever to nowhere, heavy on the elbows in the earth to nowhere, dark, never any end to nowhere, hung on all time always to unknowing nowhere, this time and again for always to nowhere, now not to be borne once again always and to nowhere, now beyond all bearing up, up, up and into nowhere, suddenly, scaldingly, holdingly all nowhere gone and time absolutely still and they were both there, time having stopped and he felt the earth move out and away from under them.

The bicycle riders drank much wine, and were burned and browned by the sun. They did not take the race seriously except among themselves.

All my life I've looked at words as though I were seeing them for the first time.

I felt the death loneliness that comes at the end of every day that is wasted in your life.

I do not need to get used to your silence. I already know it. I quite possibly love all of it.

A man does not exist until he is drunk.