I write any sort of rubbish which will cover the main outlines of the story, then I can begin to see it.

Her name was Maude and she drank whisky all day from a fruit jar under the counter.

I will rejoice the day when they say: This is right whether we all rot on top of each other or not, dear children, as we certainly may. Either practice restraint or be prepared for crowding.

Children know by instinct that hell is an absence of love, and they can pick out theirs without missing.

All human nature vigorously resists grace because grace changes us and the change is painful.

A story has to have muscle as well as meaning, and the meaning has to be in the muscle.

... the man in the violent situation reveals those qualities least dispensable in his personality, those qualities which are all he will have to take into eternity with him.