One of the pleasant things about small town life is that everyone, whether rich or poor, liked or disliked, has some kind of a role and place in the community. I never felt that living in a city - as I once did for a couple of years.

When the biggest, richest, glassiest buildings in town are the banks, you know that town's in trouble.

The best people, like the best wines, come from the hills.

A man's duty? To be ready -- with rifle or rood -- to defend his home when the showdown comes.

John Updike: our greatest suburban chic-boutique man of letters. A smug and fatal complacency has stunted his growth beyond hope of surgical repair. Not enough passion in his collected works to generate steam in a beer can. Nevertheless, he is considered by some critics to be America's finest *living* author: Hold a chilled mirror to his lips and you will see, presently, a fine and dewy moisture condensing -- like a faery breath! -- upon the glass.

If the end does not justify the means - what can?

The world is what it is, no less and no more, and therein lies its entire and sufficient meaning.