“The human heart is a lonely hunter-but the search for us southerners is more anguished.”

The seed of the idea is developed by both labor and the unconscious, and the struggle that goes on between them.

It is music that causes the heart to broaden and the listener to grow cold with ecstasy and fright.

Maybe when people longed for a thing that bad the longing made them trust in anything that might give it to them.

The Heart is a lonely hunter with only one desire!

Love is a joint experience between two persons — but the fact that it is a joint experience does not mean that it is a similar experience to the two people involved.

We are homesick most for the places we have never known.

Being human, she suffered from this lack and did what she could to make up for it. If she passed the evening bent over a table in the library and later declared that she had spent that time playing cards, it was as though she had managed to do both those things.

But you haven’t never loved God nor even nair person. You hard and tough as cowhide. But just the same I knows you. This afternoon you going to roam all over the place without never being satisfied.

There’s nothing that makes you so aware of the improvisation of human existence as a song unfinished. Or an old address book.

Doctors, by God; washing their hands, looking out windows, fiddling with dreadful things while you are stretched out on a table or half undressed on a chair.

Falling in love is the easiest thing in the world. It’s standing in love that matters.

I once wrote a story about a writer who could not write anymore, and my friend Tennessee Williams said, ‘How could you dare write that story, it’s the most frightening work I have ever read.’ I was pretty well sunk while I was writing it.

I run these little pieces of myself through her and I come out complete. Now do you follow me?

I think we look for the differences in people because it makes us less lonely.

His own life seemed so solitary, a fragile column supporting nothing amidst the wreckage of the years.

This fear is one of the horrors of an author’s life. Where does work come from? What chance, what small episode will start the chain of creation?