We are each of us like our little blue planet, hung in black space, upheld by nothing but our mutual reassurances, our loving lies.

Hoping to fashion a mirror, the lover doth polish the face of his beloved until he produces a skull.

I am sometimes visited by the heretical thought that there is no such thing as good and bad architecture, any more than there is good and bad nature. It is all in where you stand at the time.

In all the green world nothing feels as good as a woman's good nature.

Museums and bookstores should feel, I think, like vacant lots - places where the demands on us are our own demands, where the spirit can find exercise in unsupervised play.

Most of American life consists of driving somewhere and then returning home, wondering why the hell you went.

What other sport holds out hope of improvement to a man or a woman over fifty? True, the pros begin to falter at around forty, but it is their putting nerves that go, not their swings. For a duffer like [me], the room for improvement is so vast that three lifetimes could be spent roaming the fiarways carving away at it, convinced that perfection lies just over the next rise. And that hope, perhaps, is the kindest bliss of all that golf bestows upon its devotees.