I think I would have written five times as much as I've written if I didn't have this terrible sense of perfection.

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

So the days, the last days, blow about in a memory, hazy autumnal, all alike as leaves: until a day unlike any other I've lived

That isn't writing at all, it's typing.

Just remember: If one bird carried every grain of sand, grain by grain, across the ocean, by the time he got them all on the other side, that would only be the beginning of eternity.

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.

Let's take everything just as it is.