I thought that Mr. Clutter was a very nice gentleman. I thought so right up to the moment that I cut his throat.

First, a gorgeous breakfast: just everything you can imagine from flapjacks and fried squirrel to hominy grits and honey in the comb...we're so impatient to get at the presents we can't eat a mouthful.

The only obligation any artist can have is to himself. His work means nothing, otherwise. It has no meaning.

If you sweep a house, and tend its fires and fill its stove, and there is love in you all the years you are doing this, then you and that house are married, that house is yours.

All artists are two-headed calves.

I guess if you're that thin and that small you don't need to take up too much space or breathe that much air. You just keep on going.

Love is a chain of love as nature is a chain of life.