I grew up playing war. We threw dirt and rocks at each other. We'd lead attacks. We'd break up into squads. It became a neighborhood thing for a while, our neighborhood against the other neighborhood. There was always a war breaking out somewhere.

Writers are used to being re-created, and need it.

I felt a rush of trust--felt that life might be not just tolerable but beautiful, if I could only remember to find the bare Present.

I grew up playing war. We threw dirt and rocks at each other. We'd lead attacks. We'd break up into squads. It became a neighborhood thing for a while, our neighborhood against the other neighborhood. There was always a war breaking out somewhere.

The stars above Italian clubs' badges shows you how many times they have won the Gazetta.

Life is short. It's God's fault. Sorry.

To every Armageddonist, every earth lover must keep saying with all the sincerity and affection we can muster, “May God make this world as beautiful to you as it has been to me.