Let him that is without stone among you cast the first thing he can lay his hands on.

Nothing flatters me more than to have it assumed that I could write prose, unless it be to have it assumed that I once pitched a baseball with distinction.

No memory of having starred atones for later disregard, or keeps the end from being hard.

O hushed October morning mild, Begin the hours of this day slow, Make the day seem to us less brief... Retard the sun with gentle mist; Enchant the land with amethyst.

Nature is always hinting at us. It hints over and over again. And suddenly we take the hint.

The only way around is through.

I never knew what was meant by choice of words. It was one word or none.