A good writer of history is a guy who is suspicious.
Mulligan: invented by an Irishman who wanted to hit one more twenty yard grounder.
Gimme: an agreement between two losers who can’t putt.
Nobody understands anyone 18, including those who are 18.
Archaeology is the peeping Tom of the sciences. It is the sandbox of men who care not where they are going; they merely want to know where everyone else has been.
A golf ball can stop in the fairway, rough, woods, bunker or lake. With five equally likely options, very few balls choose the fairway.
Raising a child is very much like building a skyscraper. If the first few stories are slightly out of line. no one will notice. But when the building is 18 or 20 stories high, everyone will see that it tilts.
A reporter meets interesting people. If he endures, he will get to know princes and presidents, popes and paupers, prostitutes and panderers. And always, in the back of his head, there will be a dozen men and women he will never meet. And always, he will feel the poorer for it.
At 19, everything is possible and tomorrow looks friendly.
Perhaps the best thing which can be said about newspapers in the United States is that they are in chronic disagreement with each other. That is what is meant by a free press.
What makes a good writer of history is a guy who is suspicious. Suspicion marks the real difference between the man who wants to write honest history and the one who’d rather write a good story.
It is impossible to read for pleasure from something to which you are both father and mother, born in such travail that the writer despises the thing that enslaved him.
Death is as casual and often as unexpected as birth. It is as difficult to define grief as joy. Each is finite. Each will fade.
I can look at my books with pleasure from a distance. Four feet is close enough.
A newspaper is lumber made malleable. It is ink made into words and pictures. It is conceived, born, grows up and dies of old age in a day.
Yes, sir.” “I don’t know what the doctors are looking for, but they should be told that a pristine bullet has been found.” The disorder of the apartment.
God invented whiskey so the Irish wouldn’t rule the world.
Three weeks ago a man who had called himself Lee H. Oswald had rented Box 6225.
No,” she said adamantly. The words had become a set piece: “I want them to see what they’ve done.
Believe me, all of you, when I say that I am in the Father and the Father is in me; but if not, at least believe on the strength of what I am doing.