All good New Orleanians go to look at the Mississippi at least once a day. At night it is like creeping into a dark bedroom to look at a sleeping child--something of that sort--gives you the same warm nice feeling, I mean.

There is within every human being a deep well of thinking over which a heavy iron lid is kept clamped.

People keep on getting married. Evidently hope is eternal in the human breast.

Friends you have, people you love, die and are born again.

It may be life is only worthwhile at moments. Perhaps that is all we ought to expect.

What's wrong with this egotism? If a man doesn't delight in himself and the force in him and feel that he and it are wonders, how is all life to become important to him?

The eighteen years he has lived seem but a moment, a breathing space in the long march of humanity. Already he hears death calling. With all his heart he wants to come close to some other human, touch someone with his hands, be touched by the hand of another.