I am trying to say it all in one sentence, between one cap and one period.

A writer strives to express a universal truth in the way that rings the most bells in the shortest amount of time.

It's always the idle habits you acquire which you will regret.

I think that no one individual can look at truth. It blinds you. You look at it and you see one phase of it. Someone else looks at it and sees a slightly awry phase of it. But taken all together, the truth is in what they saw though nobody saw the truth intact.

Everyone in the South has no time for reading because they are all too busy writing.

Gratitude is a quality similar to electricity: it must be produced and discharged and used up in order to exist at all.

He thought that it was loneliness which he was trying to escape and not himself. But the street ran on: catlike, one place was the same as another to him. But in none of them could he be quiet. But the street ran on in its moods and phases, always empty: he might have seen himself as in numberless avatars, in silence, doomed with motion, driven by the courage of flagged and spurred despair; by the despair of courage whose opportunities had to be flagged and spurred.