Oh, we can populate the dark with horrors, even we who think ourselves informed and sure, believing nothing we cannot measure or weigh. I know beyond all doubt that the dark things crowding in on me either did not exist or were not dangerous to me, and still I was afraid.
Maybe that's the reason, "Adam said slowly, feeling his way." Maybe if I had loved him I would have been jealous of him. You were. Maybe-maybe love makes you suspicious and doubting. Is it true that when you love a woman you are never sure-never sure of her because you aren't sure of yourself? I can see it pretty clearly. I can see how you loved him and what it did to you. I did not love him. Maybe he loved me. He tested me and hurt me and punished me and finally he sent me out like a sacrifice, maybe to make up for something. But he did not love you, and so he had faith in you. Maybe, why, maybe it's a kind of reverse.
In utter loneliness a writer tries to explain the inexplicable.
A man who tells secrets or stories must think of who is hearing or reading, for a story has as many versions as it has readers.
One man was so mad at me that he ended his letter: "Beware. You will never get out of this world alive."
I have come to believe that a great teacher is a great artist and that there are as few as there are any other great artists. It might even be the greatest of the arts since the medium is the human mind and spirit.
Does anyone ever know even the outer fringe of another? What are you like in there? Mary, do you hear? Who are you in there?
The mountains of things we throw away are much greater than the things we use. In this, if in no other way, we can see the wild and reckless exuberance of our production, and waste seems to be the index.
You watch your place, nigger. I could get you strung up on a tree so easy, it ain' t even funny.
I've seen a look in dogs' eyes, a quickly vanishing look of amazed contempt, and I am convinced that basically dogs think humans are nuts.