We Are Homesick Most For The Places

Nothing Is So Musical As The Sound Of Pouring Bourbon For The First Drink On A Sunday Morning. Not Bach Or Schubert Or Any Of Those Masters.

Because In Some Men It Is In Them To Give Up Everything Personal At Some Time, Before It Ferments And Poisons--throw It To Some Human Being Or Some Human Idea. They Have To.

The Human Heart Is A Lonely Hunter-but The Search For Us Southerners Is More Anguished.

There Are All These People Here I Don't Know By Sight Or By Name. And We Pass Alongside Each Other And Don't Have Any Connection. And They Don't Know Me And I Don't Know Them. And Now I'm Leaving Town And There Are All These People I Will Never Know.

The Seed Of The Idea Is Developed By Both Labor And The Unconscious, And The Struggle That Goes On Between Them.