Our loneliness makes us avid column readers these days.
Men greet each other with a sock on the arm, women with a hug, and the hug wears better in the long run.
The novelist screws up his courage in order to invest another two or three years in another attempt to float a boat of original design upon an invented ocean.
A mountain with a wolf on it stands a little taller.
No birdcall is the musical equal of a clarinet blown with panache.
True solitude is a din of birdsong, seething leaves, whirling colors, or a clamor of tracks in the snow.