In little pockets of conversation, old men were telling stories of ancient floods. Women were talking of about how much rain there'd been in other towns -- Paragould, Lepanto, and Manila.

In one long glorious acknowledgment of failure, he laid himself bare before God.

The company later went broke, and of course all blame was directed at the lawyers. Not once did I hear any talk that maybe a trace of mismanagement could in any way have contributed to the bankruptcy.

The mother of a trophy wife is not automatically a trophy mother-in-law.

The good thing about writing fiction is that you can get back at people.

Quite often I can be in a bookshop, standing beneath a great big picture of myself and paying for a book with a credit card clearly marked John Grisham, yet no one recognises me. I often say I'm a famous author in a country where no one reads.

How could homosexuals possibly srew up the sanctity of marriage any worse than heterosexuals?