One old lady who wants her head lifted wouldn't be so bad, but you multiply her two hundred and fifty thousand times and what you get is a book club.

We are now living in an age which doubts both fact and value. It is the life of this age that we wish to see and judge.

Conviction without experience makes for harshness.

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

The Southerner is usually tolerant of those weaknesses that proceed from innocence.

She was a good Christian woman with a large respect for religion, though she did not, of course, believe any of it was true.

The writer operates at a peculiar crossroads where time and place and eternity somehow meet. His problem is to find that location.