What freedom men and women could have, were they not constantly tricked and trapped and enslaved and tortured by their sexuality! The only drawback in that freedom is that without it one would not be a human. One would be a monster.

He needs us like he needs a mud dauber's nest up his pant leg.

A farmer cannot think too much evil of a good farmer.

A bribed man can only hate his briber. When this man died the nation rang with praise and, just beneath, with gladness that he was dead.

What good is the warmth of summer, without the cold of winter to give it sweetness.

Every night a world created, complete with furniture—friends made and enemies established; a world complete with braggarts and with cowards, with quiet men, with humble men, with kindly men. Every night relationships that make a world, established; and every morning the world torn down like a circus.

The quick pain of truth can pass away, but the slow, eating agony of a lie is never lost. That's a running sore.

To be alive at is to have scars.

I have always lived violently, drunk hugely, eaten too much or not at all, slept around the clock or missed two nights of sleeping, worked too hard and too long in glory, or slobbed for a time in utter laziness. I've lifted, pulled, chopped, climbed, made love with joy and taken my hangovers as a consequence, not as a punishment.

Up ahead they's a thousan' lives we might live, but when it comes, it'll on'y be one. If I go ahead on all of 'em, it's too much.

The Lord in his wisdom gave money to very curious people, perhaps because they'd starve without. -Liza.

Adam's mother ran the farm, bore Adam, and still had time to embrace a primitive theosophy. She felt that her husband would surely be killed by the wild and barbarous rebels, and she prepared herself to get in touch with him in what she called the beyond.

It was Una, he said hoarsely. He couldn't get over Una. He told me how a man, a real man, had no right to let sorrow destroy him. He told me again and again how I must believe that time would take care of it. He said it so often that I knew he was losing.

They fell into a silence. They looked at one another, amazed. This thing they had never really believed in was coming true.

And in the eyes of the people there is the failure; and in the eyes of the hungry there is a growing wrath. In the souls of the people the grapes of wrath are filling and growing heavy, growing heavy for the vintage.

And as he was capable of giant joy, so did he harbor huge sorrow, so that when his dog died the world ended.

See. Is it responsibility or blame that bothers you? I don't want blame. Sometimes responsibility is worse. It doesn't carry any pleasant egotism.

Just set one day's work in front of the last day's work. That's the way it comes out. And that's the only way it does.

A cantankerous, complaining, mischievous, laughing face. He fought and argued, told dirty stories. He was as lecherous as always. Vicious and cruel and impatient, like a frantic child, and the whole structure overlaid with amusement. He drank too much when he could get it, ate too much when it was there, talked too much all the time.

For it is not true that an uneventful time in the past is remembered as fast. On the contrary, it takes the time-stones of events t give a memory past dimension. Eventlessness collapses time.

She controlled her face and whipped the fear from it. You're just doing it because you're honest, is that it? You're just too sugar sweet to live.

It was his first sharp experience with the rule that without money you cannot fight money.

You can't start with a democracy. You have to work up through stuff like tyranny and monarchy first. That way people are so relived when they get to democracy that they hang on to it.

And all their love was thinned with money.

Fella says today, 'Depression is over. I seen a jackrabbit, an' they wasn't nobody after him.' An' another fella says, 'That aint the reason. Can't afford to kill jackrabbits no more. Catch 'em and milk 'em an' turn 'em loose. One you seen prob'ly gone dry.

That's what makes it ours-being born on it, working on it, dying on it. That makes ownership, not a paper with numbers on it.

It is a cosmic joke. Preoccupation with survival has set the stage for extinction.

Up ahead they's a thousan' lives we might live, but when it comes it'll on'y be one.

For how can a man without property know the ache of ownership?

Can a man think out his life, or must he just tag along?

It was a morning like other mornings and yet perfect among mornings.

Fear the time when the bombs stopped falling while the bombers live - for every bomb is proof that the spirit has not died. And fear the time when the strikes stop while the great owners live - for every little beaten strike is proof that the step is being taken.

It's the lie I'm thinking of. It might infect everything. If they ever found out you'd lied to them about this, the true things would suffer. They wouldn't believe anything then. Yes, I see. But what can I tell them? I couldn't tell them the whole truth. Maybe you can tell them a part truth, enough so that you won't suffer if they find out.

Free men cannot start a war, but once it is started, they can fight on in defeat. Herd men, followers of a leader, cannot do that, and so it is always the herd men who win battles and the free men who win wars. You will find that is so, sir.

The gilded chairs covered with their worn tapestry were set about stiffly like too many servants with nothing to do.

There is a sorrow here that weeping cannot symbolize.

There was the hills, an' there was me, an' we wasn't separate no more. We was one thing. An' that one thing was holy.

Then the soldiers went to Mexico and it was a kind of painful picnic. Nobody knows why you go to a picnic to be uncomfortable when it is so easy and pleasant to eat at home.

Man hates something in himself. He has been able to defeat every natural obstacle but himself he cannot win over unless he kills every individual. And this self-hate which goes so closely in hand with self-love is what I wrote about. - in a letter to George Albee.

It's like a life--so quickly when we don't watch it and so slowly when we do.

Somehow they felt they were living in a moment when history pauses and takes stock and changes course.

Don't worry about losing. If it is right, it happens – The main thing is not to hurry. Nothing good gets away.

There's a responsibility in being a person. It's more than just taking up space where air would be.

He thought of the virtues of courage and forbearance, which become flabby when there is nothing to use them on.

This must be a good book, he wrote in Working Days on June 10, 1938. It simply must. I haven't any choice. It must be far and away the best thing I have ever attempted—slow but sure, piling detail on detail until a picture and an experience emerge. Until the whole throbbing thing emerges.

And the night moved restlessly about the house.

The men were ruthless because the past had been spoiled, but the women knew how the past would cry to them in the coming days.

But you said you did not love our father. How can you have faith in him if you didn't love him?

I always found in myself a dread of west and a love of east.