You're going to pass something down no matter what you do or if you do nothing. Even if you let yourself go fallow, the weeds will grow and the brambles. Something will grow.

Only God sees the sparrow fall, but even God doesn't do anything about it.

As happens sometimes, a moment settled and hovered and remained for much more than a moment. And sound stopped and movement stopped for much, much more than a moment.

You can't go home again because home has ceased to exist except in the mothballs of memory.

I wrote The Grapes of Wrath in one hundred days, but many years of preparation preceded it.

To be alive at all is to have scars.

Critics are the eunuchs of literature. They stand by in envious awe while the whole man and his partner demonstrate the art of living.