People joked that Forster became more renowned with every book he did not write.
Cats are kindly masters, just so long as you remember your place.
Muffled lives explode in understatements.
One must love a poet on its own terms.
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.
You can only stare at a clown mask so long. After a few minutes it's no big deal anymore. So people start paying attention to the music instead of what the clown is doing, or what he is wearing, or how cool his spikey hair is.