There comes a point, in literary objectivity, when the author's self- effacement is hard to distinguish from moral cowardice.
Suicide: Don't knock it if you ain't tried it.
We should restore the practice of dueling. It might improve manners around here.
Critics are like ticks on a dog or tits on a motor: ornamental but dysfunctional.
Roosters: The cry of the male chicken is the most barbaric yawp in all of nature.
The desert wears... a veil of mystery. Motionless and silent it evokes in us an elusive hint of something unknown, unknowable, about to be revealed. Since the desert does not act it seems to be waiting -- but waiting for what?