What do you mean, what's the matter with him? Nothing's the matter with him, everything's the matter with him, the same as it is with everybody else. He's just fine. He gets overwhelmed now and then, and he doesn't know how to say what he feels or means, so he cries and runs off a little, trying to find out where to go, for God's sake. Where can you go?

It is impossible not to notice that our world is tormented by failure, hate, guilt, and fear.

Every man in the world is better than someone else and not as good someone else.

What is a street? It is where the living weep, where the dead go off in silence to their peace.

The order I found was the order of disorder

I can't decide for you whether or not you have got to write, but if anything in the world, war, or pestilence, or famine, or private hunger, or anything, can stop you from writing, then don't write . . . because if anything can even begin to keep you from writing you aren't a writer and you'll be in a hell of a mess until you find out. If you are a writer, you'll still be in a hell of a mess, but you'll have better reasons.

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.