This human nature is shabby stuff, as you may know from introspection.

The tuba is certainly the most intestinal of instruments, the very lower bowel of music.

When I see a paragraph shrinking under my eyes like a strip of bacon in a skillet, I know I'm on the right track.

Pain is the question mark turned like a fishhook in the human heart.

Let us hope, I prayed, that a kind Providence will put a speedy end to the acts of God under which we have been laboring.

Life is a crowded superhighway with bewildering cloverleaf exits on which a man is liable to find himself speeding back in the direction he came.

The writer can only explore the inner space of his characters by perceptively navigating his own.