"Well, jus’ forget it," said Crooks. "I didn’ mean it. Jus’ foolin’. I wouldn’ want to go no place like that."

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.

"Funny thing," she said. "If I catch any one man, and he’s alone, I get along fine with him. But just let two of the guys get together an’ you won’t talk. Jus’ nothing but mad."

Crooks had reduced himself to nothing. There was no personality, no ego—nothing to arouse either like or dislike.

This room was swept and fairly neat, for Crooks was a proud, aloof man. He kept his distance and demanded that other people keep theirs.

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.