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 learned little save that most of the deeds, good and bad both, incurring opprobrium or plaudits or reward either, within the scope of man's abilities, had already been performed and were to be learned about only from books.

I could smell the curves of the river beyond the dusk and I saw the last light supine and tranquil upon tideflats like pieces of broken mirror, then beyond them lights began in the pale clear air, trembling a little like butterflies hovering a long way off.

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

Sin and love and fear are just sounds that people who never sinned nor loved nor feared have for what they never had and cannot have until they forget the words

Tell about the South. What's it like there. What do they do there. Why do they live there. Why do they live at all.

I will never lie again.