“The old folk from Indiana and Iowa and Illinois, from Boston and Kansas City and Des Moines, they sold their homes and their stores, and they came here by train and by automobile to the land of sunshine, to die in the sun, with just enough money to live until the sun killed them, tore themselves out by the roots in their last days, deserted the smug prosperity of Kansas City and Chicago and Peoria to find a place in the sun. And when they got here they found that other and greater thieves had already taken possession, that even the sun belonged to the others; Smith and Jones and Parker, druggist, banker, baker, dust of Chicago and Cincinnati and Cleveland on their shoes, doomed to die in the sun, a few dollars in the bank, enough to subscribe to the Los Angeles Times, enough to keep alive the illusion that this was paradise, that their little papier-mâché homes were castles.”
“[...]you don’t have to be Sun freakin Tzu to know that real fighting isn’t about killing or even hurting the other guy, it’s about scaring him enough to call it a day.”
“Can you climb high enough to get above the clouds, look down on the rain from a place in the sun?”
“Well, just get used to it, because you're a long ways away from Kansas, my dear. She actually started singing "The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow" as she traipsed to the counter.”
“you are my sun, and if the sun went out, the shadow would die.”
“But he was wrong about the sun—I didn’t need it. All the sun in the world wouldn’t stop a flower from dying—if it had no one to care for it.”