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.

So much love, too much love, it is our madness, it is rotting us out, exploding us like dandelion polls.

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

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

My only duty was to describe reality as it had come to me-to give the mundane its beautiful due.

There is always a chance of failure, of producing something totally unnecessary. But I guess that chance of failure is what makes tightrope walking, race-car driving.

It's great to have an enemy. Sharpens your senses.