Forgive everyone for your own sins and be sure to tell them you love them which you do.

Holy flowers floating in the air, were all these tired faces in the dawn of Jazz America.

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

Writing at least is a silent meditation even though you’re going a hundred miles an hour.

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.

and silence is the golden mountain

I see as much as doors'll allow, open or shut.