There was a land of Cavaliers and Cotton fields called the Old South...
Here in this pretty world Gallantry took it's last bow. Here was the last ever to be seen of Khights and their Ladies Fair, of Master and of Slave...
Look for it only in books, for it is no more than a dream remembered.
A Civilization gone with the wind...
When we were living in Colorado there was snowfall. Our cat — I’m a cat man — wanted to get out of the house so I opened a door for him but he wouldn’t leave. Just kept on crying. He’d seen snow before and I couldn’t understand it. I kept opening other doors for him and he still wouldn’t leave. Then Ginny said, "Oh, he’s looking for a door into summer". I threw up my hands, told her not to say another word, and wrote the novel "The Door Into Summer" in 13 days.
I am too fond of reading books to care to write them, Mr. Erskine. I should like to write a novel certainly; a novel that would be as lovely as a Persian carpet, and as unreal. But there is no literary public in England for anything except newspapers, primers, and encyclopædias. Of all people in the world the English have the least sense of the beauty of literature.
The best moments in reading are when you come across something — a thought, a feeling, a way of looking at things — that you'd thought special, particular to you. And here it is, set down by someone else, a person you've never met, maybe even someone long dead. And it's as if a hand has come out, and taken yours.
Some books are so familiar that reading them is like being home again.
When I was in prison I was wrapped up in all those deep books. That Tolstoy crap. People shouldn't read that stuff.
I cannot remember the books I've read any more than the meals I have eaten; even so, they have made me.