We have usurped many of the powers we once ascribed to God.

Doc still loved true things but he knew that it was not a general love and it could be a very dangerous mistress.

He was born in fury and he lived in lightning. Tom came headlong into life. He was a giant in joy and enthusiasms. He didn't discover the world and its people, he created them. When he read his father's books, he was the first. He lived in a world shining and fresh and as uninspected as Eden on the sixth day. His mind plunged like a colt in a happy pasture, and when later the world put up fences, he plunged against the wire, and when the final stockade surrounded him, he plunged right through it and out. And as he was capable of giant joy, so did he harbor huge sorrow.

The design of a book is the pattern of a reality controlled and shaped by the mind of a writer.

The trash and litter of nature disappears into the ground with the passing of each year, but man's litter has more permanence.

Man, unlike anything organic or inorganic in the universe, grows beyond his work, walks up the stairs of his concepts, emerges ahead of his accomplishments.

Just set one day's work in front of the last day's work. That's the way it comes out. And that's the only way it does.