Dream golf is simply golf played on another course. We chip from glass tables onto moving stairways; we swing in a straightjacket, through masses of cobweb, and awaken not with any sense of unjust hazard but only with a regret that the round can never be completed, and that one of our phantasmal companions has kept the scorecard.

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

I think books should have secrets, like people do.

The Florida sun seems not much a single thing overhead but a set of klieg lights that pursue you everywhere with an even white illumination.

irony is a way of having one's cake while appearing to eat it.

In memory's telephoto lens, far objects are magnified.

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