She loved him not only in spite of but because he himself was incapable of love.

It takes two people to make you, and one people to die. That's how the world is going to end.

Gettysburg. . . . You cant understand it. You would have to be born there.

The writer's only responsibility is to his art.

Then Ben wailed again, hopeless and prolonged. It was nothing. Just sound. It might have been all time and injustice and sorrow become vocal for an instant by a conjunction of planets.

Wonder. Go on and wonder.

Let the writer take up surgery or bricklaying if he is interested in technique.