For some time now the impression has been growing upon me that everyone is dead. It happens when I speak to people. In the middle of a sentence it will come over me: yes, beyond a doubt this is death. There is little to do but groan and make an excuse and slip away as quickly as one can.

Nobody but a Southerner knows the wrenching rinsing sadness of the cities of the North.

It is not merely the truth of science that makes it beautiful, but its simplicity.

I am not ashamed to use the word class. I will also plead guilty to another charge. The charge is that people belonging to my class think they're better than other people. You're damn right we're better. We're better because we do not shirk our obligations either to ourselves or to others. . . .we live by our lights, we die by our lights, and whoever the high gods may be, we'll look them in the eye without apology.

Joy and sadness come by turns.

Not to be onto something is to be in despair.

Nothing remains but desire, and desire comes howling down Elysian Fields like a mistral.