We live in an age in which the imagination of the novelist is helpless against what he knows he is going to read in tomorrow's newspaper.

The only way to have a funeral is to invite everyone who ever knew the person and just wait for the accident to happen-somebody who comes in out of the blue and says the truth. Everything else is table manners.

I do not say correct or savory. I do not say seemly or even natural. I say serious. Sensationally serious. Unspeakably serious. Solemnly, recklessly, blissfully serious.

Like all enjoyable things, you see, it has unenjoyable parts to it.

Because that is when you love somebody - when you see them being game in the face of the worst. Not courageous. Not heroic. Just game.

Oh, to be a center fielder, a center fielder- and nothing more

You can no more make someone tell the truth than you can force someone to love you.