There is a mystery in all great writing and that mystery does not dissect out. It continues and is always valid.

The one who is doing his work and getting satisfaction from it is not the one the poverty bothers.

The brown blotches of the benevolent skin cancer the sun brings from its reflection on the tropic sea were on his cheeks. The blotches ran well down the sides of his face and his hands had the deep-creased scars from handling heavy fish on the cords. But none of these scars were fresh. They were as old as erosions in a fishless desert.

And the ones who would not make war? Can they stop it?

He would lie in the bed and finally, with daylight, he would go to sleep. After all, he said to himself, it is probably only insomnia. Many must have it.

Bullfighting is the only art in which the artist is in danger of death and in which the degree of brilliance in the performance is left to the fighter's honor.

We're stronger in the places that we've been broken.