Life is strong stuff, some of us can bear more of it than others.

people in general are totally unable to detach the personality of a writer from the products of his thinking.

It is not death that kills us, but life. We are done to death by life.

Somewhere beyond the sink-hole, past the magnolia, under the live oaks, a boy and a yearling ran side by side, and were gone forever.

It seems to me that the earth may be borrowed but not bought. It may be used but not owned. We are tenants, not possessors, lovers and not masters.

Living was no longer the grief behind him, but the anxiety ahead.

The best fish in the world are of course those one catches oneself.