Death of a Salesman

Nobody dast blame this man. Willy was a salesman. And for a salesman, there is no rock bottom to the life. He don't put a bolt to a nut, he don't tell you the law or give you medicine. He's a man way out there in the blue, riding on a smile and a shoeshine. And when they start not smiling back — that's an earthquake. And then you get yourself a couple of spots on your hat, and you're finished. Nobody dast blame this man. A salesman is got to dream, boy. It comes with the territory.

Everybody likes a kidder, but nobody lends him money.

You can't eat the orange and throw the peel away — a man is not a piece of fruit.

Why am I trying to become what I don't want to be? What am I doing in an office, making a contemptuous, begging fool of myself, when all I want is out there, waiting for me the minute I say I know who I am!

I've always made a point of not wasting my life, and every time I come back here I know that all I've done is to waste my life.

After all the highways, and the trains, and the appointments, and the years, you end up worth more dead than alive.

A small man can be just as exhausted as a great man.

Work a lifetime to pay off a house — You finally own it and there's nobody to live in it.

The only thing you got in this world is what you can sell. And the funny thing is that you're a salesman, and you don't know that.

I don't say he's a great man. Willy Loman never made a lot of money. His name was never in the paper. He's not the finest character that ever lived. But he's a human being, and a terrible thing is happening to him. So attention must be paid. He's not to be allowed to fall into his grave like an old dog. Attention, attention must be finally paid to such a person.