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What I mean is, I love winter, and when you really love something, then it loves you back, in whatever way it has to love.

John Knowles

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John Knowles
Age: 75 †
Born: 1926
Born: September 16
Died: 2001
Died: November 29
Journalist
Novelist
Writer
Fairmont
West Virginia
Loves
Whatever
Back
Mean
Something
Really
Way
Love
Winter

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But I was used to finding something deadly in things that attracted me there was always something deadly lurking in anything I wanted, anything I loved.
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Your war memories will be with you forever, you'll be asked about them thousands of times after the war is over. People will get their respect for you from that-partly from that, don't get me wrong-but if you can say that you were up front where there was some real shooting going on, then that will mean a whole lot to you in years to come.
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I did no know everything there was to know about myself, and knew that I did not know it.
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The best teaching I ever experienced was at Exeter. Yale was a distinct letdown afterward.
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Everyone has a moment in history which belongs particularly to him.
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The next major advance in the health of the American people will be determined by what the individual is willing to do for himself.
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As I walked briskly out the road the wind knifed at my face, but this sun caressed the back of my neck.
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It is a sad day when one looks back and sees that his largest regrets have become some of the most integral elements of his dreams.
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Everything has to evolve or else it perishes.
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I felt that I was not, never had been and never would be a living part of this overpoweringly solid and deeply meaningful world around me.
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Looking back now across fifteen years I could see with great clarity the fear I had lived in, which must mean that in the interval I had succeeded in a very important undertaking: I must have made my escape from it.
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the scornful force of his tone turned the word into a curse
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So the more things remained the same, the more they changed after all. Nothing endures. Not love, not a tree, not even a death by violence.
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All of them, all except Phineas, constructed at infinite cost to themselves these Maginot Lines against this enemy they thought they saw across the frontier, this enemy who never attacked that way-if he ever attacked at all if he was indeed the enemy.
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Sarcasm... the protest of those who are weak.
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It was demeaning to scrape affection from virtually everyone you encountered. That was immature.
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Stranded in this mill town railroad yard while the whole world was converging elsewhere, we seemed to be nothing but children playing among heroic men.
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I began to know that each morning reasserted the problems of night before, that sleep suspended all but changed nothing, that you couldn’t make yourself over between dawn and dusk.
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As I said, this was my sarcastic summer. It was only long after that I recognized sarcasm as the protest of people who are weak.
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