Cats are kindly masters, just so long as you remember your place.
One must love a poet on its own terms.
Muffled lives explode in understatements.
People joked that Forster became more renowned with every book he did not write.
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.
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.