He Could Beat Anything, He Thought, Because

Never Think That War, No Matter How Necessary, Nor How Justified, Is Not A Crime.

The Only Decent Bone In Her Body Was Mine.

He Liked The Works Of His Friends, Which Is Beautiful As Loyalty But Can Be Disastrous As Judgement.

But Sometimes When I Was Starting A New Story And I Could Not Get It Going, I Would Sit In Front Of The Fire And Squeeze The Peel Of The Little Oranges Into The Edge Of The Flame And Watch The Sputter Of Blue That They Made. I Would Stand And Look Out Over The Roofs Of Paris And Think, 'do Not Worry. You Have Always Written Before And You Will Write Now. All You Have To Do Is Write One True Sentence. Write The Truest Sentence That You Know.' So Finally I Would Write One True Sentence, And Then Go On From There.

The Bicycle Riders Drank Much Wine, And Were Burned And Browned By The Sun. They Did Not Take The Race Seriously Except Among Themselves.