Life is a nacho. It can be yummy-crunchy or squishy-yucky. It just depends on how long it takes for you to start eating it.
The golf swing is like a suitcase into which we are trying to pack one too many things.
What seems to sell books is good word-of-mouth, not promotion tours. I’m too old to believe that media promotion of a book really matters. What matters is how it will look 100 years from now, not how many copies are sold.
There is the fear that you somehow neglected to say what was really yours to say.
Smaller than a breadbox, bigger than a TV remote, the average book fits into the human hand with a seductive nestling, a kiss of texture, whether of cover cloth, glazed jacket, or flexible paperback.
It is not difficult to deceive the first time, for the deceived possesses no antibodies; unvaccinated by suspicion, she overlooks lateness, accepts absurd excuses, permits the flimsiest patching to repair great rents in the quotidian.
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.