Sunday is the day people go quietly mad, one way or another.

Human memory works its own wheel, and stops where it will, entirely without reference to the last stop, and with no connection with the next.

The Tax Collector's letters are invariably mimeographed, and all they say is that you still haven't paid him.

In the most commonplace, tiresome, ridiculous, malicious, coarse, crude, or even crooked people or events I had to seek out rare things, good things, comic things, and I did so.

I believe in anything that works.

I see life as one life at one time, so many millions simultaneously, all over the earth.

The purpose of writing is both to keep up with life and to run ahead of it. I am little comfort to myself, although I am the only comfort I have, excepting perhaps streets, clouds, the sun, the faces and voices of kids and the aged, and similar accidents of beauty, innocence, truth and loneliness.