“It’s almost impossible to read a fine thing without wanting to do a fine thing.”

In the souls of the people the grapes of wrath are filling and growing heavy, growing heavy for the vintage.

All great and precious things are lonely.

Maybe ever’body in the whole damn world is scared of each other.

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

Only through immitation do we develop toward originality.

To be alive at all is to have scars.

Ah, the prayers of the millions, how they must fight and destroy each other on their way to the throne of God.

It’s so much darker when a light goes out than it would have been if it had never shone.

All war is a symptom of man’s failure as a thinking animal.

I wonder how many people I’ve looked at all my life and never seen.

Time is the only critic without ambition.

When two people meet, each one is changed by the other so you’ve got two new people.

The nicest thing in the world you can do for anybody is let them help you.

And now that you don’t have to be perfect, you can be good.

Perhaps the best conversationalist in the world is the man who helps others to talk.

To finish is sadness to a writer — a little death. He puts the last word down and it is done. But it isn’t really done. The story goes on and leaves the writer behind, for no story is ever done.

It is impossible to go through life without trust: that is to be imprisoned in the worst cell of all, oneself.

The impossible could not have happened, therefore the impossible must be possible in spite of appearances.

Every day I read the newspapers, and no matter how cynical I get, it’s imposssible to keep up.

She was impossibly beautiful. If she didn’t exist, she’d have to be invented.

A knowledge of the true age of the Earth and of the fossil record makes it impossible for any balanced intellect to believe in the literal truth of every part of the Bible in the way that fundamentalists do.

We made the impossible possible if we do a deluxe baby we gotta put Nicki on it.

Despair is the price one pays for setting himself an impossible aim.

Truth is as impossible to be soiled by any outward touch as the sunbeam.