We shall not come again. We never shall come back again.

All the critics in the world may say it’s good but a man’s own mother will know.

“Anyway, I don’t want to live in New York. I want some place more like where we used to live in New Jersey. I don’t like living here. There aren’t any trees.”

This great city has fed my imagination—it has allowed me to dream.

Someday, before we all die, perhaps I shall get from home a letter in which all the news will be pleasant. 1 never have thus far.

Muzak pervades Las Vegas from the time you walk into the airport upon landing to the last time you leave the casinos.

I’ve made a long voyage and been to a strange country, and I’ve seen the dark man very close; and I don’t think I was too much afraid of him, but so much of mortality still clings to me—I wanted most desperately to live and still do.

I have come to know that the miracle rarely happens in human affairs; Lazarus is uncured and bleeds from his sores.

The provincial, the middle-class, the bourgeois, are to be found everywhere; they are necessary, I suppose—only, when you differ from their own narrow molds, they may try to crucify you.

We must try to love one another.... The terrible and beautiful sentence, the last, the final wisdom that the earth can give, is remembered at the end, is spoken too late, wearily. It stands there, awful and untraduced, above the dusty racket of our lives. No forgetting, no forgiving, no denying, no explaining, no hating.