If Wishes Were Stories, Beggars Would Read.

And The World Said, Child, You Will Not Be Missed. You Are Cheaper Than A Wrench, Your Back Is A Road; Your Death Is A Table In A Book. You Had Our Wit, Our Heart Was Sealed To You: Man Is The Judgment Of The World.

Art Matters Not Merely Because It Is The Most Magnificent Ornament And The Most Nearly Unfailing Occupation Of Our Lives, But Because It Is Life Itself.

The Southern Past, The Southern Present, The Southern Future, Concentrated Into Gertrude's Voice, Became One Of Red Clay Pine-barrens, Of Chain-gang Camps, Of Housewives Dressed In Flour Sacks Who Stare All Day Dully Down Into Dirty Sinks.

How Can We Expect Novelists To Be Moral, When Their Trade Forces Them To Treat Every End They Meet As No More Than An Imperfect Means To A Novel?

Our Quarrels With The World Are Like Our Quarrels With God: No Matter How Right We Are, We Are Wrong.