It is fitting that yesteryear's swashbuckling newspaper reporter has turned into today's solemn young sobersides nursing a glass of watered white wine after a day of toiling over computer databases in a smoke-free, noise-free newsroom.

The charm of television entertainment is its ability to bridge the chasm between dinner and bedtime without mental distraction.

So there he is at last. Man on the moon. The poor magnificent bungler! He can't even get to the office without undergoing the agonies of the damned, but give him a little metal, a few chemicals, some wire and twenty or thirty billion dollars and vroom! there he is, up on a rock a quarter of a million miles up in the sky.

Journalism was being whittled away by a Wall Street theory that profits can be maximized by minimizing the product.

The goal of all inanimate objects is to resist man and ultimately defeat him.

The biographer's problem is that he never knows enough. The autobiographer's problem is that he knows too much.

A solved problem creates two new problems, and the best prescription for happy living is not to solve any more problems.