...scared money cant win and a worried man cant love.

In the end we all come to be cured of our sentiments. Those whom life does not cure death will. The world is quite ruthless in selecting between the dream and reality, even where we will not. Between the wish and the thing the world lies waiting.

I knew that courage came with less trouble for some than for others but I believed that anyone who desired it could have it. That the desire was the thing itself. The thing itself. I could think of nothing else of which that was true.

Long before morning I knew that what I was seeking to discover was a thing that always known. That all courage was a form of constancy. That it was always himself that the coward abandoned first. After this all other betrayals came easily.

Long before morning I knew that what I was seeking to discover was a thing that always known. That all courage was a form of constancy. That it was always himself that the coward abandoned first. After this all other betrayals came easily.

You understand me? I understand you. Good, said Perez. I can normally tell how intelligent a man is by how stupid he thinks I am. I dont think you're stupid. I just dont like you. Ah, said Perez. Very good. Very good. John Grady looked at Perez's man standing against the door. He stood with his eyes caged, looking at nothing. He doesnt understand what we are saying, said Perez. Feel free to express yourself. I've done expressed myself.

Black boots, said Rawlins. Aint that the shits? I always wanted to be a badman.

They heard somewhere in that tenantless night a bell that tolled and ceased where no bell was and they rode out on the round dais of the earth which alone was dark and no light to it and which carried their figures and bore them up into the swarming stars so they rode not under but among them and they rode at once jaunty and circumspect, like thieves newly loosed in that dark electric, like young thieves in a glowing orchard, loosely jacketed against the cold and ten thousand worlds for the choosing.

He walked out into the road and stood. The silence. The salitter drying from the earth. The mudstained shapes of flooded cities burned to the waterline. At a crossroads a ground set with dolmen stones where the spoken bones of oracles lay moldering. No sound but the wind. What will you say? A living man spoke these lines? He sharpened a quill with his small pen knife to scribe these things in sloe or lampblack? He is coming to steal my eyes. To seal my mouth with dirt.

People were always getting ready for tomorrow. I didnt believe in that. Tomorrow wasnt getting ready for them. It didnt even know they were there.

There is no God and we are his prophets.

He thought each memory recalled must do some violence to its origins. As in a party game. Say the word and pass it on. So be sparing. What you alter in the remembering has yet a reality, known or not.

Then they set out along the blacktop in the gun-metal light, shuffling through the ash, each the other's world entire.

Television is all right, I've nothing against it, but I don't like how it turns you away from the rest of the world and toward nothing but its own glassy self.

I told a reporter here a while back - young girl, seemed nice enough. She was just tryin to be a reporter. She said: Sheriff how come you to let crime get so out of hand in your county? Sounded like a fair question I reckon. Maybe it was a fair question.

There's two kinds of people that dont ask a lot of questions. One is too dumb to and the other dont need to.