The measure of artistic merit is the length to which a writer is willing to go in following his own compulsions.

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.

What is the past, after all, but a vast sheet of darkness in which a few moments, pricked apparently at random, shine?

What art offers is space - a certain breathing room for the spirit.

In no other sport must the spectator move.

What you haven't done by thirty you're not likely to do. What you have done you'll do lots more.

A photograph offers us a glimpse into the abyss of time.