Man has an incurable habit of not fulfilling the prophecies of his fellow men.

The Masters is more like a vast Edwardian garden party than a golf tournament.

There is even - as with no other game - a fascinating detective literature, a wry commentary on the human comedy, implicit in the book of rules.

It has been an unchallengeable American doctrine that cranberry sauce, a pink goo with overtones of sugared tomatoes, is a delectable necessity of the Thanksgiving board and that turkey is uneatable without it.

In golf, humiliations are the essence of the game.

Hollywood grew to be the most flourishing factory of popular mythology since the Greeks.

These doomsday warriors look no more like soldiers than the soldiers of the Second World War looked like conquistadors. The more expert they become the more they look like lab assistants in small colleges