The page is long, blank, and full of truth. When I am through with it, it shall probably be long, full, and empty with words.

I'd rather hop freights around the country and cook my food out of tin cans over wood fires, than be rich and have a home or work.

On soft Spring nights I'll stand in the yard under the stars - Something good will come out of all things yet - And it will be golden and eternal just like that - There's no need to say another word.

It was my dream that screwed up, the stupid hearthside idea that it would be wonderful to follow one great red line across America instead of trying various roads and routes.

When the railroad trains moaned, and river-winds blew, bringing echoes through the vale, it was as if a wild hum of voices, the dear voices of everybody he had known, were crying: "Peter, Peter! Where are you going, Peter?" And a big soft gust of rain came down. He put up the collar of his jacket, and bowed his head, and hurried along.

I feel guilty for being a member of the human race.

beautiful insane in the rain