All cowardice comes from not truly loving, or at least, not loving well.

Dying was nothing and he had no picture of it nor fear of it in his mind. But living was a field of grain blowing in the wind on the side of a hill. Living was a hawk in the sky. Living was an earthen jar of water in the dust of the threshing with the grain flailed out and the chaff blowing. Living was a horse between your legs and a carbine under one leg and a hill and a valley and a stream with trees along it and the far side of the valley and the hills beyond.

People who write fiction, if they had not taken it up, might have become very successful liars.

Often a man wishes to be alone and a girl wishes to be alone too and if they love each other they are jealous of that in each other, but I can truly say we never felt that. We could feel alone when we were together, alone against the others. But we were never lonely and never afraid when we were together.

That is what we are supposed to do when we are at our best - make it all up - but make it up so truly that later it will happen that way.

It is a hell of a thing to be hungry in your own house.

And you'll always love me won't you? Yes And the rain won't make any difference? No