So much love, too much love, it is our madness, it is rotting us out, exploding us like dandelion polls.

People go around mourning the death of God; it's the death of sssin that bothers me. Without ssin, people aren't people any more, they're just ssoul-less sheep.

Men emerge pale from the little printing plant at four sharp, ghosts for an instant, blinking, until the outdoor light overcomes the look of constant indoor light clinging to them.

Green grass, green grandstands, green concession stalls, green paper cups, green folding chairs and visors for sale, green and white ropes, green-topped Georgia pines. If justice were poetic, Hubert Green would win it every year.

When I write, I aim in my mind not toward New York but toward a vague spot a little to the east of Kansas.

The fact that we still live well cannot ease the feeling that we no longer live nobly.

Hemingway describes literary New York as a bottle full of tapeworms trying to feed on each other.