Great stones they lay upon his chest until he plead aye or nay. They say he give them but two words. "More weight," he says. And died.

Can anyone remember love? It's like trying to summon up the smell of roses in a cellar. You might see a rose, but never the perfume.

After all the highways, and the trains, and the appointments, and the years, you end up worth more dead than alive.

I came out of a culture in which my uncle, my father - they were all salesmen of one kind or another. My father was a manufacturer. He also, in effect, had to sell that stuff. And if he didn't literally do it, his men did. So, selling was in the air through my boyhood. The whole idea of successfully selling was very important.

I know you're no worse than most men but I thought you were better. I never saw you as a man. I saw you as my father.

Certainly the most diverse, if minor, pastime of literary life is the game of Find the Author.

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