Golf is played by twenty million mature American men whose wives think they are out having fun.
Watching your daughter being collected by her date feels like handing over a million dollar Stradivarius to a gorilla.
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.
The morning after a death, we learned an avalanche of goodies about the renowned, some of which persuaded the reader that he should have cultivated the deceased in life.
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.
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.
Gimme: an agreement between two losers who can't putt.
It is difficult to live in the present, ridiculous to live in the future, and impossible to live in the past. Nothing is as far away as one minute ago.
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 good writer is not, per se, a good book critic. No more so than a good drunk is automatically a good bartender.
Books, I found, had the power to make timestand still, retreat or fly into the future.
Autumn carries more gold in its pocket than all the other seasons.
Books, I found, had the power to make time stand still, retreat or fly into the future.
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.
When you read about a car crash in which two or three youngsters are killed, do you pause to dwell on the amount of love and treasure and patience parents poured into bodies no longer suitable for open caskets?