One could say nothing to nobody. The urgency of the moment always missed its mark. Words fluttered sideways and struck the object inches too low. Then one gave it up; then the idea sunk back again; then one became like most middle-aged people, cautious, furtive, with wrinkles between the eyes and a look of perpetual apprehension. For how could one express in words these emotions of the body? express that emptiness there? To the Lighthouse

Those whom fate has dealt hard knocks remain vulnerable for ever afterwards. Beware of Pity

“Life is like a fire. Flames forgotten by the night on the road, ashes scattered in front of the wind; here, a human life has come and gone.” Samarkand

Sure, cried the tenant men, but it's our land. We measured it and broke it up. We were born on it, and we got killed on it, died on it. Even if it's no good, it's still ours. That's what makes it ours-being born on it, working it, dying on it. The Grapes of Wrath