From the place by the railing at the edge of the tracks on the summer evening I return across the city to my own room. I am vividly aware of my own life that escaped the winter on the boat. How many such lives I have lived. Then I only made a dollar and a half a day and now I sometimes make more than that in a few minutes. How wonderful to be able to write words. ... Again I begin the endless game of reconstructing my own life, jerking it out of the shell that dies, striving to breathe into it beauty and meaning. ... I wonder why my life, why all lives, are not more beautiful.

Dare to be strong and courageous. That is the road. Venture anything. Be brave enough to dare to be loved. Be something more than man or woman. Be Tandy.

I think the whole glory of writing lies in the fact that it forces us out of ourselves and into the lives of others.

In youth there are always two forces fighting in people. The warm unthinking little animal struggles against the thing that reflects and remembers

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

You can make a killing as a playwright in America, but you can't make a living.

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