Men who long for the past are already dead. Look to the future, Owen.

Completely unnerved by this scenario, I resorted to a tactic most common in prey animals: I froze and hoped to be forgotten.

I may not be skilled at eloquent oratory, but for muttering angrily under one’s breath, I have never met a more capable man.

Lively conversation and stimulating company can make a meal,” she said. “Without it, the rarest delicacy has no savor. Don’t you agree?

I have found that hunger improves my sense of smell and gives inspiration a clean passage. In any case my nerves would not allow me to eat.

I saw a man whose suffering had become a kind of skeleton holding him upright.

Here, at last, was a true appetite, who had seen the caverns of death and yet clung hard to life, who chose daily where to be in the world.

I now have some intimacy with death, and like the hops in a beer, it has both embittered and fortified me.

It matters not what language a man speaks; he holds a pen, he holds a plow, he holds a gun in exactly the same manner. We are all children of our tools.

The ocean, whose essence is fluid and unresisting, is more prison than the staunchest bricks or iron bars.