There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl.

A good story is like a bitter pill, with the sugar coating inside of it.

Each of us, when our day's work is done, must seek our ideal, whether it be love or pinochle or lobster à la Newburg, or the sweet silence of the musty bookshelves.

There is one day that is ours. There is one day when all we Americans who are not self-made go back to the old home to eat saleratus biscuits and marvel how much nearer to the porch the old pump looks than it used to. Thanksgiving Day is the one day that is purely American.

Most wonderful of all are words, and how they make friends one with another.

Life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.

What else can you expect from a town thats shut off from the world by the ocean on one side and New Jersey on the other?