A Good Heavy Book Holds You Down.

Anyone Who Undertakes The Literary Grind Had Better Like Playing Around With Words.

English Is An Outrageous Tangle Of Those Derivations And Other Multifarious Linguistic Influences, From Yiddish To Shoshone, Which Has Grown Up Around A Gnarly Core Of Chewy, Clangorous Yawps Derived From Ancestors Who Painted Themselves Blue To Frighten Their Enemies.

I Prefer My Oysters Fried; That Way I Know My Oysters Died.

Certainly People Have Said A Lot Of Deeply Unfortunate And Stupid Things In Southern Accents, But That Doesn't Mean There's Anything Wrong With The Accent Itself.

Perhaps The Truth Is That Heavy Literature Blooms In Extremes Of Temperature.