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.

Revolution is just one crowd taking power from another.

When we try in good faith to believe in materialism, in the exclusive reality of the physical, we are asking our selves to step aside; we are disavowing the very realm where we exist and where all things precious are kept - the realm of emotion and conscience, of memory and intention and sensation.

Being a divorcee in a small town is a little like playing Monopoly; eventually you land on all the properties.

Government is either organized benevolence or organized madness; its peculiar magnitude permits no shading.

Natural beauty is essentially temporary and sad, hence the impression of obscene mockery which artificial flowers give us.

Of nothing but me I sing, lacking another song.