All I have to be thankful for in this world is that I was sitting down when my garter busted.

Nevil Shute's On the Beach is no Christmas carol, but it seems to me a remarkably fine novel, one which I read, in the peculiarly repulsive phrase, with my eyes glued to the page.

She runs the gamut of emotions from A to B.

This play John Drinkwater's Abraham Lincoln holds the season's record, thus far, with a run of four evening performances and one matinee. By an odd coincidence, it ran just five performances too many.

His voice was as intimate as the rustle of sheets.

I find her anecdotes more efficacious than sheep-counting, rain on a tin roof, or alanol tablets.... you will find me and Morpheus, off in a corner, necking.

Every year, back comes Spring, with nasty little birds yapping their fool heads off and the ground all mucked up with plants.