“Come up into the hills, O my young love. Return! O lost, and by the wind grieved, ghost, come back again, as… — Thomas Wolfe Copy Share Image
And who shall say--whatever disenchantment follows--that we ever forget magic; or that we can ever betray, on this leaden earth, the apple-tree,… — 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
