Writing is not an exercise in excision, it's a journey into sound.

Why is it, do you suppose, that an Englishman is unhappy until he has explained America?

When snow accumulates week after week, month after month, it works curious miracles.

It is Sunday, mid-morning-Sunday in the living room, Sunday in the kitchen, Sunday in the woodshed, Sunday down the road in the village: I hear the bells, calling me to share God's grace.

In middle life, the human back is spoiling for a technical knockout and will use the flimsiest excuse, even a sneeze, to fall apart.

I am reminded of the advice of my neighbor. "Never worry about your heart till it stops beating.

Semi-colons only prove that the author has been to college.