The lives of happy people are dense with their own doings -- crowded, active, thick. But the sorrowing are nomads, on a plain with few landmarks and no boundaries; sorrow's horizons are vague and its demands are few.

Part of the trick of being happy is a refusal to allow oneself to become too nostalgic for the heady triumphs of one's youth.

I don't see how being married could be any worse than listening to you talk for twenty years, but that still ain't much of a recommendation for it.

The earth is mostly just a boneyard. But pretty in the sunlight.

Certainly on the vast windy plain, there was plenty of nothing to be looked at.

If you want one thing too much it’s likely to be a disappointment. The healthy way is to learn to like the everyday things, like soft beds and buttermilk—and feisty gentlemen.

There isn't a thought in my head I care to be alone with for more than five minutes.