The muttered hint, "Remember, you have a stroke here," freezes my joints like a blast from Siberia.

My mother didn't raise me to be a critic, but I seem to have become one anyway.

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.

The scrape and snap of Keds on loose alley pebbles seems to catapult their voices high into the moist March air blue above the wires.

Government [is] an illusion the governed should not encourage.

If you're telling me I'm not mature, that's one thing I don't cry over since as far as I can make out it's the same thing as being dead.

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