Everybody's got their troubles.
Flowers are heaven's masterpiece.
Summer makes me drowsy. Autumn makes me sing. Winter's pretty lousy, but I hate Spring.
The writer's way is rough and lonely, and who would choose it while there are vacancies in more gracious professions, such as, say, cleaning out ferryboats?
On being told of the death of former President Calvin Coolidge: How could they tell?
This is me apologizing. I am a fool, a bird-brain, a liar and a horse-thief. I wouldn't touch a superlative again with an umbrella.