Golf camaraderie, like that of astronauts and Antarctic explorers, is based on a common experience of transcendence; fat or thin, scratch or duffer, we have been somerwhere together where non-golfers never go.

All blessings are mixed blessings.

Men emerge pale from the little printing plant at four sharp, ghosts for an instant, blinking, until the outdoor light overcomes the look of constant indoor light clinging to them.

I think books should have secrets, like people do.

Fenway Park, in Boston, is a lyric little bandbox of a ballpark. Everything is painted green and seems in curiously sharp focus, like the inside of an old-fashioned peeping-type Easter egg.

Hope bases vast premises on foolish accidents, and reads a word where in fact only a scribble exists.

There is no pleasing New Englanders, my dear, their soil is all rocks and their hearts are bloodless absolutes.