Ever since he had been a kid, he had wished and waited, and there had been no change except for the worst.

His face was a gaze of primal obtuseness.

The boy scout struggled after her with the bundle that was too heavy for him. Studs watched them, and thought unprintable things about old lady Gorman.

He had a picture in his mind of Studs Lonigan courageously telling life and the world to stick itself up it's old tomato.

There's one good kind of writer - a dead one.

He had come to America, haven of peace and liberty, and it, too, was joining the slaughter, fighting for the big capitalists. There was no peace for men, only murder, cruelty, brutality.