The modern picture of the artist began to form: The poor, but free spirit, plebeian but aspiring only to be classless, to cut himself forever free from the bonds of the greedy bourgeoisie, to be whatever the fat burghers feared… — Thomas Wolfe Copy Share Image
“So all were gone at last, one by one, each swept out into the mighty flood tide of the city's life, there to prove,… — Thomas Wolfe Copy Share Image
“A stick is not only wood but the negation of wood. It is the meeting in space of wood and no-wood. A stick is… — Thomas Wolfe Copy Share Image
All things on earth point home in old October; sailors to sea, travellers to walls and fences, hunters to field and hollow and the… — Thomas Wolfe Copy Share Image
“At these repeated signs of decadence in a society which had once been the object of his envy and his highest ambition, Webber's face… — Thomas Wolfe Copy Share Image
If a man has talent and can't use it, he's failed. If he uses only half of it, he has partly failed. If he… — Thomas Wolfe Copy Share Image
There came to him an image of man’s whole life upon the earth. It seemed to him that all man’s life was like a… — Thomas Wolfe Copy Share Image
“He had learned some of the things that every man must find out for himself, and he had found out about them as one… — Thomas Wolfe Copy Share Image
What I had to face, the very bitter lesson that everyone who wants to write has got to learn, was that a thing may… — Thomas Wolfe Copy Share Image
The mountains were his masters. They rimmed in life. They were the cup of reality, beyond growth, beyond struggle and death. They were his… — Thomas Wolfe Copy Share Image
“For four years he lived in Brooklyn, and four years in Brooklyn are a geologic age -- a single stratum of grey time. They… — Thomas Wolfe Copy Share Image
“Eugene looked with passionate devotion at that grand old head, calm, wise and comforting. In a moment of vision, he saw that, for him,… — Thomas Wolfe Copy Share Image
Each moment is the fruit of forty thousand years. The minute-winning days, like flies, buzz home to death, and every moment is a window… — Thomas Wolfe Copy Share Image
