In the end, the Tribune lost touch with the world it was supposed to reach; it mattered passionately, but almost exclusively, to those who worked for it.

People joked that Forster became more renowned with every book he did not write.

The image of the reporter as a nicotine-stained Quixote, slugging back Scotch while skewering city hall with an expose ripped out of a typewriter on the crack of deadline, persists despite munificent evidence to the contrary.

In the end, the Tribune lost touch with the world it was supposed to reach; it mattered passionately, but almost exclusively, to those who worked for it.

Muffled lives explode in understatements.

Cats were put into the world to disprove the dogma that all things were created to serve man.

One must love a poet on its own terms.