You did not kill the fish only to keep alive and to sell for food, he thought. You killed him for pride and because you are a fisherman. You loved him when he was alive and you loved him after. If you love him, it is not a sin to kill him. Or is it more?

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

It is awfully easy to be hard-boiled about everything in the daytime, but at night it is another thing.

I was always a lonely person when I was with everyone.

I do not know what I thought Paris would be like, but it was not that way. It rained nearly every day.

Any man's life, told truly, is a novel.

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.