She clung to that which had robbed her, as people do.

Talk, talk, talk: the utter and heartbreaking stupidity of words.

A man is the sum of his misfortunes. One day you'd think misfortune would get tired but then time is your misfortune

...I give you the mausoleum of all hope and desire...I give it to you not that you may remember time, but that you might forget it now and then for a moment and not spend all of your breath trying to conquer it. Because no battle is ever won he said. They are not even fought. The field only reveals to man his own folly and despair, and victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools.

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.

Only the peak feels so sound and stable that the beginning of the falling is hidden for a little while.

Sometimes I aint so sho who's got ere a right to say when a man is crazy and when he aint. Sometimes I think it aint none of us pure crazy and aint none of us pure sane until the balance of us talks him that-a-way. It's like it aint so much what a fellow does, but it's the way the majority of folks is looking at him when he does it.