And the odd think in Dad's voice was the sound truth makes being said.

Writing is supposed to be difficult, agonizing, a dreadful exercise, a terrible occupation.

Here at this far lost end of the continent, where the trail wagons had stopped and the people with them.

I'm interested in having fun with ideas, throwing them up in the air like confetti and then running under them.

You're not like the others. I've seen a few; I know. When I talk, you look at me. When I said something about the moon, you looked at the moon, last night. The others would never do that. The others would walk off and leave me talking. Or threaten me. No one has time any more for anyone else. You're one of the few who put up with me. That's why I think it's so strange you're a fireman, it just doesn't seem right for you, somehow.

There is too much government today. We've got to remember the government should be by the people, of the people, and for the people.

Dad," said Will, his voice very faint. "Are you a good person?" "To you and your mother, yes, I try. But no man's a hero to himself. I've lived with me a lifetime, Will. I know everything worth knowing about myself-" "And, adding it all up...?" "The sum? As they come and go, and I mostly sit very still and tight, yes, I'm all right.