I'm No Good At Describing My Books.

He Could Hardly Lift His Spoon During Breakfast, And Then He Was Out On The Lake, His Spoon Soon Replaced By A Shovel.

We May Be Surrounded By Some Greater Reality, To Which We Are Oblivious. And Even If We Could Somehow Perceive It In Some Entirely New Way, It Is Extremely Doubtful We Would Be Able To Comprehend What We Perceived.

Give Me A Dollar Or I'll Spit On You.

Each Beat Told Him He Was Still Alive, At Least For One More Second.

I Write In The Mornings, Two Or Three Hours Every Day, And Then At Least Four Times A Week I Play In A Duplicate Game At A Bridge Club. I Try To Go To Tournaments Three, Four, Or Five Times A Year.