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I didn't have much hope. Soon I would be 50. Love was fitful and glorious and painful. There will always be thugs in caves murdering children and crowing. But we are capable of creating wonders beyond our imagination every second of the game.
Do Australians hate Americans? No, because Americans invented basketball. What do Australians eat? Yeast paste. It tastes like someone ground up a penguin and then left it in the rain for a month before adding rubber and dirt to it.
For every greedy evil rapacious liar priest .. there are thirty great and subtle men .. Who wake alone quite early and don their vocations .. Willingly like a thorny endlessly tumultuous prayer
Consider the nun we had for first grade ... Sister Dorita, who had a stevedore's forearms. On the second day of school she hauled a bubbling boy named David into the air by his necktie.
Former local sports hero The Hawk took up residence on the town football field. A reporter came looking for a tale of woe but didn't find it. People leave him sandwiches, the kids who play lacrosse set up a screen so his tent won't get peppered by stray shots, and cops drift by to make sure no one's giving him grief.
Went to return a book the other day and it refused to go in the BOOKS ONLY slot. I tried again, thinking perhaps I had suddenly aged beyond belief and could not muster the muscle to cram it through the wall, but no, it was the book itself, adamant, recalcitrant, bristling and ruffling indignantly, that would not allow itself to be returned.
As a society we fail our children if we do not carefully remove our street clothes, don cotton pyjamas, and crawl into the boat of the bed with a sigh of delight, each and every night, there to voyage, UnKindled, BlackBerryless, PalmPilotless, into the glory of story.
Augustine. Wondrous lesson, that man, but he has been imprisoned by theology. Grant me chastity but not yet, everyone knows that hilarious remark.
Just as Brits were more absorbed by Byron's life than his work, and Australians were absorbed by Shane Warne's antics more than his artistry, J. D. Salinger grew more famous for retreating from public life, than for his masterpieces.
The blizzards of bills, the surly son, the dismissive daughter, the shabby house, the battered car, the shivering pains, the dark thread of fear that I might not have been a good dad, the feeling sometimes that maybe there was a better husband for my wife ...
Once I opened a present on which a young niece had written MARY CHRIST BUS, with every iota of her tongue-clenched diligence. If I was a wise man, I would have saved that paper, so that I could even now open it and see the world as it is, ancient, glorious and written endlessly by the young.
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