In the cellars of the night, when the mind starts moving around old trunks of bad times, the pain of this and the shame of that, the memory of a small boldness is a hand to hold.
Aspiring to a souffle, he achieves a pancake at which the reader saws without much appetite.
Books fall from Garry Wills like leaves from a maple tree in a sort of permanent October.
Baseball happens to be a game of cumulative tension but football, basketball and hockey are played with hand grenades and machine guns.
It takes a long time to grow an old friend.
