In the olden days, everybody sang. You were expected to sing as well as talk. It was a mark of the cultured man to sing.

It was just a matter of survivalーlike getting off the roadーso we could exist form day to day.

My sorrow, when she's here with me, Thinks these dark days of autumn rain are beautiful as days can be; She loves the bare, The withered tree; She walks the sodden pasture lane.

Back in my days as a chemistry student, I used to be quite a technocrat. I was firmly convinced that scientists would have cornered god and photographed him in color by 1951.

I don't think the intelligence reports are all that hot. Some days I get more out of the new york times.