I'm working on my own life story. I don't mean I'm putting it together; no, I'm taking it apart.
All stories are about wolves. All worth repeating, that is. Anything else is sentimental drivel. Think about it. There's escaping from the wolves, fighting the wolves, capturing the wolves, taming the wolves. Being thrown to the wolves, or throwing others to the wolves so the wolves will eat them instead of you. Running with the wolf pack. Turning into a wolf. Best of all, turning into the head wolf. No other decent stories exist.
I am certain that a Sewing Machine would relieve as much human suffering as a hundred Lunatic Asylums, and possibly a good deal more.
Roughing it builds a boy's character, but only certain kinds of roughing it.
Another belief of mine: that everyone else my age is an adult, whereas I am merely in disguise.
There is more than one kind of freedom... Freedom to and freedom from. In the days of anarchy, it was freedom to. Now you are being given freedom from. Don't underrate it.
Do not let the bastards grind you down.
The policemen's faces glisten too, they're holding themselves back, they love this, it's a ceremony, they're implementing a policy.
He had that faint sick look in his eyes, as if he wanted to give her something, charity for instance.
He's just a contact of hers, which is not the same as a friend. While she was in the hospital she decided that most of her friends were really just contacts.
I would rather dance as a ballerina, though faultily, than as a flawless clown.
The Eskimos had 52 names for snow because it was important to them; there ought to be as many for love.