Where can we hide in fair weather, we orphans of the storm?
You can't ever tell what's going to hurt people.
One has to regard a man as a Master who can produce on average three uniquely brilliant and entirely original similes to every page.
Anyone could write a novel given six weeks, pen paper, and no telephone or wife.
I'm one of the blind alleys off the main road of procreation.
No one could really hate a saint, could they? They can't really hate God either. When they want to Hate Him and His saints they have to find something like themselves and pretends it's God and hate that.