The fact is always obvious much too late, but the most singular difference between happiness and joy is that happiness is a solid and joy a liquid.

The mark of the immature man is that he wants to die nobly for a cause, while the mark of the mature man is that he wants to live humbly for one.

What I really felt like, though, was committing suicide. I felt like jumping out the window. I probably would've done it, too, if I'd been sure somebody'd cover me up as soon as I landed. I didn't want a bunch of stupid rubbernecks looking at me when I was all gory.

You never even worried, with Jane, whether your hand was sweaty or not. All you knew was, you were happy. You really were.

I'd never yell, "Good luck!" at anybody. It sounds terrible, when you think about it.

Poets are always taking the weather so personally. They're always sticking their emotions in things that have no emotions.

Take most people, they are crazy about cars. They worry if they get a little scratch on them, they are always talking about have many miles they get to a gallon, and if they get a brand new car already they start thinking about trading it in for one that is even newer. I do not even like old cars. . . . I'd rather have a horse. A horse is at least human, for God's sake.