I think it's the real world. The people we're writing about in professional sports, they're suffering and living and dying and loving and trying to make their way through life just as the brick layers and politicians are.

In entertainment value, the Democratic clambake usually lays it over the Republican conclave like ice cream over parsnips.

Baseball is a dull game only for those with dull minds.

The natural habitat of the tongue is the left cheek.

Writing is easy. Just sit in front of a typewriter, open up a vein and bleed it out drop by drop.

Now it is done. Now the story ends. And there is no way to tell it. The art of fiction is dead. Reality has strangled invention.

I have known writers who paid no damned attention whatever to the rules of grammar and rhetoric and somehow made the language behave for them.