A good book holds you down. It’s an anchor that keeps you from getting up and having another gin and tonic.
Cats have intercepted my footsteps at the ankle for so long that my gait, both at home and on tour, has been compared to that of a man wading through low surf.
Ham’s substantial, ham is fat. Ham is firm and sound. Ham’s what God was getting at When He made pigs so round.
Lots of people have expressed consternation that I haven’t gotten rid of Southern accent, but I just never saw any reason to lose the flavor that I grew up with. I enjoy saying some things with a Southern accent.
The North isn’t a place. It’s just a direction out of the South.
English is an outrageous tangle of those derivations and other multifarious linguistic influences, from Yiddish to Shoshone, which has grown up around a gnarly core of chewy, clangorous yawps derived from ancestors who painted themselves blue to frighten their enemies.
Vincent van Gogh’s mother painted all of his best things. The famous mailed decapitated ear was a figment of the public relations firm engaged by Van Gogh’s dealer.
Obama’s the most thoughtful-sounding president I can remember. He seems to be saying what he wants to say, and that is a great relief. He always sounds like he’s thinking about what he’s saying while he’s saying it, and that’s a rare thing in politicians.
Going to Vanderbilt did a lot of things for me, and one of the things it cured me of was the need to follow college football.
Certainly people have said a lot of deeply unfortunate and stupid things in Southern accents, but that doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with the accent itself.
Obama’s got a great sense of humor, but mainly he has a great thinking presence, which is uncommon. It’s hard to imagine being able to do, think over answers and deliver them on television. If I were president I would constantly be spluttering.
New York walking isn’t exercise: it’s a continually showing make-your-own movie.