There's plenty of fire in the coldest flint!

No hardy perennial has the enduring quality of hope. Cut it to the roots, stamp it underfoot, let frost and fire work their will, and still some valiant shoot will push, to grow again on such scanty fare as it can find. Only time and the cruel quicklime of fact can destroy that stubborn urgency.

When I was young they used to say people only threw stones at the tree that was loaded with fruit.

I was never one to begrudge people their memories. From a child I would listen when they spoke of the past.

...his hoofbeats fall like rain, over and over again.

I used to think I had ambition... but now I'm not so sure. It may have been only discontent. They're easily confused.

One of the pleasantest things about book writing is that sometimes it brings one in touch with old friends.