Watching your daughter being collected by her date feels like handing over a million-dollar Stradivarius to a gorilla.
Gimme: An agreement between two losers who can't putt.
True love is night jasmine, a diamond in darkness, the heartbeat no cardiologist has ever heard. It is the most common of miracles, fashioned of fleecy clouds a handful of stars tossed into the night sky.
Golf is played by twenty million mature American men whose wives think they are out having fun.
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.
Watching your daughter being collected by her date feels like handing over a million dollar Stradivarius to a gorilla.
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.
Scoops of mint ice cream with chips of chocolate cows.
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.
Gimme: an agreement between two losers who can't putt.
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.
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.
