I would especially like to re-court the Muse of poetry, who ran off with the mailman four years ago, and drops me only a scribbled postcard from time to time.
Let us not mock God with metaphor, Analogy, sidestepping, transcendence; Making of the event a parable, a sign painted in the Faded credulity of earlier ages: Let us walk through the door.
Is not the decisive difference between comedy and tragedy that tragedy denies us another chance?
The Founding Fathers in their wisdom decided that children were an unnatural strain on parents. So they provided jails called schools, equipped with tortures called an education.
A computer and a cat are somewhat alike – they both purr, and like to be stroked, and spend a lot of the day motionless. They also have secrets they don’t necessarily share.
Prose should have a flow, the forward momentum of a certain energized weight; it should feel like a voice tumbling in your ear.
Fiction is nothing less than the subtlest instrument for self-examination and self-display that Mankind has invented yet.
Fenway Park, in Boston, is a lyric little bandbox of a ballpark. Everything is painted green and seems in curiously sharp focus, like the inside of an old-fashioned peeping-type Easter egg.
The physicists are getting down to the nitty-gritty, they’ve really just about pared things down to the ultimate details, and the last thing they ever expected to happen is happening. God is showing through.
Green grass, green grandstands, green concession stalls, green paper cups, green folding chairs and visors for sale, green and white ropes, green-topped Georgia pines. If justice were poetic, Hubert Green would win it every year.
Adversity in immunological doses has its uses; more than that crushes.
Human was the music, natural was the static.
I love my government not least for the extent to which it leaves me alone.
The days are short, The sun a spark Hung thin between The dark and dark.
What we need is progress with an escape hatch.
In all the green world nothing feels as good as a woman’s good nature.
There is no such thing as static happiness. Happiness is a mixed thing, a thing compounded of sacrifices, and losses, and betrayals.
The difficulty with humorists is that they will mix what they believe with what they don’t; whichever seems likelier to win an effect.
Let us not seek to make it less monstrous, for our own convenience, our own sense of beauty, lest, awakened in one unthinkable hour, we are embarrassed by the miracle, and crushed by remonstrance.
The guarantee that our self enjoys an intended relation to the outer world is most, if not all, we ask from religion. God is the self projected onto reality by our natural and necessary optimism. He is the not-me personified.