A stilted heron labored up into the air and pounded down the river.

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

A funeral isn't for the dead. You'll simply be a stage set for a kind of festival maybe. And besides, you won't even be there.

I have thought that men and women should never come together except in bed. There is the only place where their natural hatred of each other is not so apparent.

Well, every little boy thinks he invented sin. Virtue we think we learn, because we are told about it. But sin is our own designing.

A journey is a person in itself; no two are alike. And all plans, safeguards, policing, and coercion are fruitless. We find that after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us.

Give a critic an inch, he'll write a play.