She was buried in his flesh. She throbbed in the beat of his pulses. She was wine in his blood, a music in his heart.

Thomas Wolfe

Thomas Wolfe

Profession: Novelist
Nationality: American

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He was twenty eight years old now, and wise enough to know that there are sometimes reasons of which the reason knows nothing, and that the fictional pattern of one's life, formed and set by years of living, is not to be discarded quite as easily as one may throw away a battered hat or worn-out shoe.

They clung together in that bright moment of wonder, there on the magic island, where the world was quiet, believing all they said. And who shall say—whatever disenchantment follows—that we ever forget magic, or that we can ever betray, on this leaden earth, the apple-tree, the singing, and the gold?

Eugene looked with passionate devotion at that grand old head, calm, wise and comforting. In a moment of vision, he saw that, for him, here was the last of those giants to whom we give the faith of our youth, believing like children that the riddle of our lives may be solved by their quiet judgment.

A slow trickle of lust crawled painfully down the parched gully of desire, and ended feebly in dry fumbling lechery.

You have reached the pinnacle of success as soon as you become uninterested in money, compliments, or publicity.

Finally, only thirty or forty million years before, our earliest ancestors had crawled out of the primeval slime; and then, no doubt, finding the change unpleasant, crawled back in again.

The reason a writer writes a book is to forget a book and the reason a reader reads one is to remember it.

I believe that we are lost here in America, but I believe we shall be found. And this belief, which mounts now to the catharsis of knowledge and conviction, is for me--and I think for all of us--not only our own hope, but America's everlasting, living dream.

Man is born to live, to suffer, and to die, and what befalls him is a tragic lot. There is no denying this in the final end. But we must deny it all along the way.

Was it in woman's nature to be content with all that a man could give her, and not forever want what was not his to give?

Fiction is not fact, but fiction is fact selected and understood, fiction is fact arranged and charged with purpose.

And who shall say--whatever disenchantment follows--that we ever forget magic; or that we can ever betray, on this leaden earth, the apple-tree, the singing, and the gold?

Come to us Father, in the watches of the night. Come to us as you always came, bringing to us the invincible sustenance of your strength, the limitless treasure of your bounty, the tremendous structure of your life that will shape all lost and broken things on earth again into a golden pattern of exultancy and joy.

One belongs to New York instantly. One belongs to it as much in five minutes as in five years.