Gods always behave like the people who make them.

She was saving up feelings for some man she had never seen.

Grown people know that they do not always know the way of things, and even if they think they know, they do not know where and how they got the proof.

There is something about poverty that smells like death. Dead dreams dropping off the heart like leaves in a dry season and rotting around the feet; impulses smothered too long in the fetid air of underground caves. The soul lives in sickly air. People can be slaveships in shoes.

Love, I find, is like singing.

Happiness is nothing but everyday living seen through a veil.

I do not pray. . . . I do not expect God to single me out and grant me advantages over my fellow men. . . . Prayer seems to me a cry of weakness, and an attempt to avoid, by trickery, the rules of the game as laid down. I do not choose to admit weakness. I accept the challenge of responsibility.