it was a sly trick of God's to give a man work to do - it kept him from asking questions that God couldn't answer.
A false vision was better than none.
Time passed so much more slowly than space.
By mid-morning a rain as fine as silk spills was weaving over the lake.
Growing old was simply a process of drawing closer to that ultimate independence called death.
I don't see as it matters much how well you mean if it's harm you're doin'.