Mr. Roark, I’m so sorry about—” she hesitated demurely “—about what happened this morning.

Says he foun' he jus' got a little piece of a great big soul. Says a wilderness ain't no good, 'cause his little piece of a soul wasn't no good 'less it was with the rest, an' was whole.

Don't let the bastards grind you down. I repeat this to myself but it conveys nothing. You might as well say, Don't let there be air; or, Don't be.

If I’ve reached the place where I’m a good influence on anybody, it’s time I cultivated some new vices.

Written By Robert A. Heinlein

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