Well, I remember this girl. I am not whole without her. I am not alive without her. When she was with me I was more alive than I have ever been, and not only when she was pleasant either. Even when we were fighting I was whole.
When two people meet, each one is changed by the other so you’ve got two new people.
I got you to look after me, and you got me to look after you, and that’s why.
Farewell has a sweet sound of reluctance. Good-by is short and final, a word with teeth sharp to bite through the string that ties past to the future.
Don’t make everyone know about your sadness.
The bank is something more than men, I tell you. It’s the monster. Men made it, but they can’t control it.
There’s a responsibility in being a person. It’s more than just taking up space where air would be.
What a frightening thing is the human, a mass of gauges and dials and registers, and we can only read a few and those perhaps not accurately.
Write freely and as rapidly as possible and throw the whole thing on paper.
Can you honestly love a dishonest thing?
One must withdraw for a time from life in order to set down that picture.
People need responsibility. They resist assuming it, but they cannot get along without it.
Try to understand men. If you understand each other you will be kind to each other. Knowing a man well never leads to hate and almost always leads to love.
Sectional football games have the glory and the despair of war, and when a Texas team takes the field against a foreign state, it is an army with banners.
We know what we got, and we don’t care whether you know it or not.
No one wants advice – only corroboration.
Where does discontent start? You are warm enough, but you shiver. You are fed, yet hunger gnaws you. You have been loved, but your yearning wanders in new fields. And to prod all these there’s time, the Bastard Time.
It has always been my private conviction that any man who puts his intelligence up against a fish and loses had it coming.
In utter loneliness a writer tries to explain the inexplicable.
I hold that a writer who does not passionately believe in the perfectibility of man has no dedication nor any membership in literature.