Dying--shucks! If you kin handle the living, what's to be afraid of the dying?

Storytelling and copulation are the two chief forms of amusement in the South. They're inexpensive and easy to procure.

The urge to write poetry is like having an itch. When the itch becomes annoying enough, you scratch it.

For the truth is a terrible thing.

Then after a long time Annie wasn’t a little girl anymore. She was a big girl and I was so much in love with her that I lived in a dream. In the dream my heart seemed to be ready to burst, for it seemed that the whole world was inside it swelling to get out and be the world. But that summer came to an end. Time passed and nothing happened that we had felt so certain at one time would happen.

All I've tried to do (with my writing) is capture the essence of my time.

Maybe a man has to sell his soul to get the power to do good.