The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter

Next to music beer was best.

Because of the insolence of all the white race he was afraid to lose his dignity in friendliness.

"I'm one who knows. I'm a stranger in a strange land."

She wished there was some place where she could go to hum it out loud. Some kind of music was too private to sing in a house cram full of people. It was funny, too, how lonesome a person could be in a crowded house.

"The way I need you is a loneliness I cannot bear."

I want—I want—I want—was all that she could think about—but just what this real want was she did not know.

In his face there came to be a brooding peace that is seen most often in the faces of the very sorrowful or the very wise.

The people dreamed and fought and slept as much as ever. And by habit they shortened their thoughts so that they would not wander out into the darkness beyond tomorrow.

"The most fatal thing a man can do is try to stand alone."

"I do not have any home. So why should I be homesick?"

"Wherever you look there's meanness and corruption. This room, this bottle of grape wine, these fruits in the basket, are all products of profit and loss. A fellow can't live without giving his passive acceptance to meanness. Somebody wears his tail to a frazzle for every mouthful we eat and every stitch we wear—and nobody seems to know. Everybody is blind, dumb, and blunt-headed—stupid and mean."

"All we can do is go around telling the truth."

"It is far better for the profits of our purse to be taken from us than to be robbed of the riches of our minds and souls."

Maybe when people longed for a thing that bad the longing made them trust in anything that might give it to them.

And how can the dead be truly dead when they still live in the souls of those who are left behind?