There is nothing pleasanter than spading when the ground is soft and damp.

We only have one story. All novels, all poetry are built on the never-ending contest in ourselves of good and evil.

No one knows my ability the way I do. I am pushing against it all the time.

The words are meaningless except in terms of feeling. Does anyone act as the result of thought or does feeling stimulate action and sometimes thought implement it.

Literature was not promulgated by a pale and emasculated critical priesthood singing their litanies in empty churches, nor is it a game for the cloistered elect, the tinhorn mendicants of low calorie despair.

People need responsibility. They resist assuming it, but they cannot get along without 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.