“There is one who remembers the way to your door: Life you may evade, but Death you shall not.”

We must not cease from exploration. And the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we began and to know the place for the first time.

For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.

Footfalls echo in the memory, down the passage we did not take, towards the door we never opened, into the rose garden.

This is the way the world ends not with a bang but a whimper.

Teach us to care and not to care

If you aren’t in over your head, how do you know how tall you are?

I can connect Nothing with nothing

For you know only a heap of broken images

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, and I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, and in short, I was afraid.

The very existence of libraries affords the best evidence that we may yet have hope for the future of man

I am moved by fancies that are curled, around these images and cling, the notion of some infinitely gentle, infinitely suffering thing.

The purpose of literature is to turn blood into ink.

This love is silent.

April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain.

We had the experience but missed the meaning. And approach to the meaning restores the experience in a different form.

For I have known them all already, known them all—Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.

The biggest difference between Jesus Christ and ethical and moral teachers who have been deified by man. Is that these moralists came to make bad people good. Jesus came to make dead people live!

Elvis is dead and I don’t feel so good for myself.

A wise person once wrote, “Resentment is like drinking poison and hoping the other person would die.” But the only one dying is ourselves.

In today’s competitive economy, to stand still is to die.

Ambition. An overmastering desire to be vilified by enemies while living and made ridiculous by friends when dead.

Hope rises and dreams flicker and die. Love plans for tomorrow and loneliness thinks of yesterday. Life is beautiful and living is pain.

The Long Red Road is a story about alcoholism and dysfunction and tragic tale of a man who’s trying to drink himself to death on an Indian reservation in Dakota. It was written for me, so it’s something I would love to do.

Christ not only died for all: He died for each.