But words is like the spots on dice: no matter how y fumbles em, there's times when they jes won't come. ---p. 42
Houses are shy girls whose eyes shine reticently upon the dusk body of the street.---p. 77
Night throbs a womb-song to the South. Cane- and cotton-fields, pine forests, cypress swamps, sawmills, and factories are fecund at her touch. Night's wombsong sets them singing.---p. 120