Everybody tells me what a timesaver the Internet is, and how they can't believe they ever got along without it. And I know what they mean, but every time I use it I wind up wondering what people did w...
Cain said he wasn't Abel's keeper. Are those our only choices, keeper or killer?
Когда не знаешь, кто твои враги, приходится ненавидеть друзей.
Novels pass in and out of my hands while volumes of poetry are mine for life.
When writing functions in this fashion as self-directed psychotherapy, we err if we demand that people be entertained and enlightened by the process.
When I decided in my mid-fifties to return to a hobby I’d abandoned twenty years earlier, I didn’t know what sort of a collector I’d be. As a boy I’d started out collecting everything, then narrowed m...
Well, you live and you learn, and generally in that order. I
Wait a minute. Can a general worldwide collector care more about some countries than others? Is there a Most-Favored Nation clause in his contract with philately? Ah. Wouldn’t you know it? Now I’ve go...
There are eight million stories in the naked city, he intoned. You remember that program? Used to be on television some years back.I remember.They had that line at the end of every show. ‘There are ei...
The Turks have dreary jails.
The Players are gentlemen, he’d intoned, pretending to be actors. The Lambs are actors, pretending to be gentlemen. And the Friars—the Friars are neither, pretending to be both.
Take care. It seems to me that people have only been saying that phrase on parting for the past few years or so. All of a sudden everyone started to say it, as if the whole country abruptly recognized...
So many changes, eating away at the world like water dripping on a rock.
Right there! See the blue on its head? See the long tail? Oh, there he is, I said, just to bring this little farce to an end. I couldn’t see the bird, and I knew I wasn’t going to see the bird, and I...
Perhaps I’ve just mounted the initial stamp on a page that used to be blank. Perhaps I’ve filled the final space on that page. Or, as is more often the case, perhaps I’ve added a fifteenth stamp to a...
Novels are written—as life is lived—One Day At A Time.
My glass was empty. I poured more scotch into it, took a small sip, and all at once the silly thing was empty again. Strange. Then it was full again. And then it was empty again. Strange, I thought. F...
Martin Greer Galton had ceased troubling his fellow man in 1964, when a cerebral aneurysm achieved what most of his acquaintances and business associates would have dearly loved to have had a hand in.
It was still there, a low-grade fever in the blood, an itch somewhere down beneath the skin, where you couldn’t scratch it.
I thought I'd go home and reread Sue Grafton. It's been a while since I last read the one about the topless dancer who gets poison injected into one of her implants.'D' Is For Cup.Right. Bern, you kno...