He had no place he could stay in without getting tired of it and because there was nowhere to go but everywhere, keep rolling under the stars.

And what does the rain say at night in a small town, what does the rain have to say? Who walks beneath dripping melancholy branches listening to the rain? Who is there in the rain’s million-needled blurring splash, listening to the grave music of the rain at night, September rain, September rain, so dark and soft? Who is there listening to steady level roaring rain all around, brooding and listening and waiting, in the rain-washed, rain-twinkled dark of night?

You'd be surprised how little I knew even up to yesterday

You can't live in this world but there's nowhere else to go.

There was nothing to talk about anymore. The only thing to do was go.

A fine thing to be talking about angels in this day when common thieves smash the holy rosaries of their victims in the street.

Genius gives birth, talent delivers. What Rembrandt or Van Gogh saw in the night can never be seen again. Born writers of the future are amazed already at what they're seeing now, what we'll all see in time for the first time, and then see imitated many times by made writers.