The brave dies perhaps two thousand deaths if he's intelligent. He simply doesn't mention them.

All the contact I have had with politics has left me feeling as though I had been drinking out of spitoons.

Some other places were not so good but maybe we were not so good when we were in them.

You expected to be sad in the fall. Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintery light. But you knew there would always be the spring, as you knew the river would flow again after it was frozen. When the cold rains kept on and killed the spring, it was as though a young person died for no reason.

I never had to choose a subject - my subject rather chose me.

The echoes of beauty you've seen transpire, Resound through dying coals of a campfire.

If he wrote it, he could get rid of it. He had gotten rid of many things by writing them.