He understood the way that you could sometimes fall right into them, as if each page was a hole into another world.
The man who never reads lives only one.
It was a story called ‘The Hero’ which I sold to Galaxy magazine in 1970, for $94.
Life is not a song, sweetling. Someday you may learn that, to your sorrow.
She was no stranger to waiting, after all. Her man had always made her wait.
If a man paints a target on his chest, he should expect that sooner or later someone will loose an arrow on him.