And when I think about that, I think that if nothing but being married will help a man, he's durn nigh hopeless.

We shall not kill and maybe next time we even won't.

Some days in late August at home are like this, the air thin and eager like this, with something in it sad and nostalgic and familiar.

I believe in God, God. God, I believe in God.

Who is he who will affirm that there must be a web of flesh and bone to hold the shape of love?

We will have to choose not between color nor race nor religion nor between East and West either, but simply between being slaves and being free. And we will have to choose completely and for good; the time is already past now when we can choose a little of each, a little of both. We can choose a state of slavedom, and if we are powerful enough to be among the top two or three or ten, we can have a certain amount of license - until someone more powerful rises and has us machine-gunned against a cellar wall.

Don't be 'a writer'. Be writing.