A large drop of sun lingered on the horizon and then dripped over and was gone, and the sky was brilliant over the spot where it had gone, and a torn cloud, like a bloody rag, hung over the spot of it's going. And dusk crept over the sky from the eastern horizon, and darkness crept over the land from the east.

— John Steinbeck

All great and precious things are lonely.

— John Steinbeck

All this wondering was the weather vane on top of the building of unrest and of discontent

— John Steinbeck

All war is a symptom of man's failure as a thinking animal.

— John Steinbeck

A man can do a lot of damage in the church. When someone comes here, he's got his guard up. But in church a man's wide open.

— John Steinbeck

A man who tells secrets or stories must think of who is hearing or reading, for a story has as many versions as it has readers. Everyone takes what he wants or can from it and thus changes it to his measure. Some pick out parts and reject the rest, some strain the story through their mesh of prejudice, some paint it with their own delight. A story must have some points of contact with the reader to make him feel at home in it. Only then can he accept wonders.

— John Steinbeck

A man who writes a story is forced to put into it the best of his knowledge and the best of his feeling. The discipline of the written word punishes stupidity and dishonesty. A writer lives in awe of words for they can be cruel or kind, and they can change their meanings right in front of you.

— John Steinbeck

A man with a beard was always a little suspect anyway. You couldn't say you wore a beard because you liked a beard. People didn't like you for telling the truth. You had to say you had a scar so you couldn't shave.

— John Steinbeck

A man without words is a man without thought.

— John Steinbeck

American cities are like badger holes, ringed with trash--all of them--surrounded by piles of wrecked and rusting automobiles, and almost smothered in rubbish. Everything we use comes in boxes, cartons, bins, the so-called packaging we love so much. The mountain of things we throw away are much greater than the things we use.

— John Steinbeck