The other day, I was so desperate for a beer, I snuck into the football stadium and ate the dirt under the bleachers.

I would rather be a serf in a poor man's house and be above ground than reign among the dead.

I'm like that guy who single-handedly built the rocket and flew to the moon. What was his name? Apollo Creed?

The windy satisfaction of the tongue.

It's man's to fight, but heaven's to give success.

God help me, I'm just not that bright.

All the survivors of the war had reached their homes and so put the perils of battle and the sea behind them.