One of [ways being lucky] was to go to school during the Great Depression because teaching became a plum job.

[I write] intuitively, reflexively, as if skiing down a steep mountain slope with no time to think.

It is so short and jumbled and jangled, Sam, because there is nothing intelligent to say about a massacre. Everybody is supposed to be dead, to never say anything or want anything ever again. Everything is supposed to be very quiet after a massacre, and it always is, except for the birds. And what do the birds say? All there is to say about a massacre, things like "Poo-tee-weet?

God Almighty Himself must have been hilarious when human beings so mingled iron and water and fire as to make a railroad train!

... uncritical love is the only real treasure.

Most things in this world don´t work, aspirin do.

The complicated futility of ignorance.