There are many good fishermen and some great ones. But there is only one you.

Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintry light.

Luck is a thing that comes in many forms and who can recognize her?

I would walk along the quais when I had finished work or when I was trying to think something out. It was easier to think if I was walking and doing something or seeing people doing something that they understood.

Sometimes you know the story. Sometimes you make it up as you go along and have no idea how it will come out.

I had seen nothing sacred, and the things that were glorious had no glory and the sacrifices were like the stockyards at Chicago if nothing was done with the meat except to bury it.

Your blood coagulates beautifully.