That's the story of my life rich or poor and mostly poor and truly poor.

I have all the time in the world from life to life to do what is to do, to do what is done, to do the timeless doing.

It ain't whatcha write, it's the way atcha write it.

She brooded and bit her rich lips: my soul began its first sink into her, deep, heady, lost; like drowning in a witches' brew, Keltic, sorcerous, starlike.

No man should go through life without once experiencing healthy, even bored solitude in the wilderness, finding himself depending solely on himself and thereby learning his true and hidden strength

Bein Crazy is the least of my worries.

What is he aching to do? What are we all aching to do? What do we want?” She didn’t know. She yawned. She was sleepy. It was too much. Nobody could tell. Nobody would ever tell. It was all over. She was eighteen and most lovely, and lost.