A guy sets alone out here at night, maybe readin’ books or thinkin’ or stuff like that. Sometimes he gets thinkin’, an’ he got nothing to tell him what’s so an’ what ain’t so.

I ain’t wanted in the bunk house, and you ain’t wanted in my room.

Sat’iday night. Ever’body out doin’ som’pin’. Ever’body! An’ what am I doin’? Standin’ here talkin’ to a bunch of bindle stiffs—a nigger an’ a dum–dum and a lousy ol’ sheep—an’ likin’ it because they ain’t nobody else.

It ain’t no lie. We’re gonna do it. Gonna get a little place an’ live on the fatta the lan’.

You got no right to come in my room. This here’s my room. Nobody got any right in here but me.

If I say something, why it’s just a nigger sayin’ it.

This is just a nigger talkin’, an’ a busted–back nigger. So it don’t mean nothing, see? You couldn’t remember it anyways.

If we could keep Curley in, we might. But Curley’s gonna want to shoot ’im. Curley’s still mad about his hand. An’ s’pose they lock him up an’ strap him down and put him in a cage. That ain’t no good, George.

"Lennie never done it in meanness," he said. "All the time he done bad things, but he never done one of ’em mean."

"I should of knew," George said hopelessly. "I guess maybe way back in my head I did."