Jane Austen: Getting into her books is like getting in bed with a cadaver. Something vital is lacking; namely, life.

I'm a humanist; I'd rather kill a man than a snake.

Jesus don't walk on water no more; his feet leak.

Preacher to me: 'A dollar for the Lord, brother?' Me to preacher: 'That's all right, I'm headed his way. I'll give it to him when I see him.'

Mental degeneracy may be caused by lead poisoning. Or by a poor dip in the gene pool.

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.

A cowboy is a farm boy in leather britches and a comical hat.