I hold that a writer who does not passionately believe in the perfectibility of man has no dedication nor any membership in literature.

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

Many a trip continues long after movement in time and space have ceased.

Then the hard, dry Spaniards came exploring through, greedy and realistic, and their greed was for gold or God. They collected souls as they collected jewels. They gathered mountains and valleys, rivers and whole horizons, the way a man might now gain tittle to building lots.

All we got is the family unbroke.

I am a little man and this is a little town, but there must be a spark in little men that can burst into flame.

Socialism is just another form of religion, and thus delusional.