It is the hour of pearl—the interval between day and night when time stops and examines itself.

The curious hocus-pocus of criticism I can't take seriously. It consists in squirreling up some odd phrases and then waiting for a book to come running by.

There is no lostness like that which comes to a man when a perfect and certain pattern has dissolved about him.

And now that you don't have to be perfect, you can be good.

The fields were fruitful, and starving men moved on the roads.

There is no term comparable to green thumbs to apply to such a mechanic, but there should be. For there are men who can look, listen, tap, make an adjustment, and a machine works.

Change was everywhere. People were gone, or changed, and that was almost like being gone.