Love is bitter and all there is, and that the rest is for the emotional beggars of the earth.

Father said conflict develops the character

I play the radio and moon about...and dream of Utopias where its always July the 24th 1935, in the middle of summer forever.

Life has puffed and blown itself into a summer day, and clouds and spring billow over the heavens as if calendars were a listing of mathematical errors.

Pronunciation has made many an innocent word sound like a doctor's orders for a stomach pump.

I wish I could write a beautiful book to break those hearts that are soon to cease to exist: a book of faith and small neat worlds and of people who live by the philosophies of popular songs.

A southern moon is a sodden moon, and sultry. When it swamps the fields and the rustling sandy roads and the sticky honeysuckle hedges in its sweet stagnation, your fight to hold on to reality is like a protestation against a first waft of ether.