That's what they mean by the love that passeth understanding: that pride, that furious desire to hide that abject nakedness which we bring here with … - William Faulkner

I'm a failed poet. Maybe every novelist wants to write poetry first, finds he can't, and then tries the short story, which is the most demanding form after poetry. And, failing at that, only then does he take up novel writing.

. . . I learned that words are no good; that words dont ever fit even what they are trying to say at.

She thought of them, woolly, shapeless; savage, petulant, spoiled, the flatulent monotony of their sheltered lives snatched up without warning by an incomprehensible moment of terror and fear of bodily annihilation at the very hands which symbolised by ordinary the licensed tranquillity of their lives.