Not only do the brave get killed, but the brave have a better chance of it.

I'm back with my own kind of people here now, the bums and drinkers and no goods and it is a fine thing.

Man is the only kind of varmint sets his own trap, baits it, then steps in it.

Some days are born ugly. From the very first light they are no damn good what ever the weather, and everbody knows it. No one knows what causes this, but on such a day people resist getting out of bed and set their heels against the day. When they are finally forced out by hunger or job they find that the day is just as lousy as they knew it would be.

The bank is something more than men, I tell you. It's the monster. Men made it, but they can't control it.

Liza poured thick batter from a pitcher onto a soapstone griddle. The hot cakes rose like little hassocks, and small volcanoes formed and erupted on them until they were ready to be turned. A cheerful brown, they were, with tracings of darker brown. And the kitchen was full of the good sweet smell of them.

To be alive at all is to have scars.