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.
The reporter is the daily prisoner of clocked facts. On all working days, he is expected to do his best in one swift swipe at each story.
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.
Gimme: an agreement between two losers who can't putt.
The future is an opaque mirror. Anyone who tries to look into it sees nothing but the dim outlines of an old and worried face.
Scoops of mint ice cream with chips of chocolate cows.
