Time is a fluid condition which has no existence except in the momentary avatars of individual people. There is no such thing as was - only is.

This does not matter. This is not anything yet. It all depends on what you do with it, afterward.

The writer in America isn't part of the culture of this country. He's like a fine dog. People like him around, but he's of no use.

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.

To understand the world, you must first understand a place like Mississippi.

It is my ambition to be, as a private individual, abolished and voided from history, leaving it markless, no refuse save the printed books. [] It is my aim, and every effort bent, that the sum and history of my life, which in the same sentence is my obit and epitaph too, shall be them both: he made the books and he died.

Tomorrow night is nothing but one long sleepless wrestle with yesterday's omissions and regrets.