Texas has a tight cohesiveness perhaps stronger than any other section of America.

But a man needs company.

Intentions, good or bad, are not enough. There's luck or fate or something else that takes over.

The writer is delegated to declare and to celebrate man's proven capacity for greatness of heart and spirit—for gallantry in defeat, for courage, compassion and love. In the endless war against weakness and despair, these are the bright rally flags of hope and of emulation. I hold that a writer who does not believe in the perfectibility of man has no dedication nor any membership in literature.

Orange and speckled and fluted nudibranchs slide gracefully over the rocks, their skirts waving like the dresses of Spanish dancers.

Ideas are like rabbits. You get a couple and learn how to handle them, and pretty soon you have a dozen.

There is nothing pleasanter than spading when the ground is soft and damp.