Sublime

At Exeter, he would read Sweet Thursday and Cannery Row, John Steinbeck’s lightly fictionalized accounts of marine biologist Ed Ricketts.

He was the voice in England of this humane intoxication and expansion, this encouraging of anybody to be anything. His best books are a carnival of liberty,

He is more than clever, he is amusing. He is more than successful, he is alive. You will find him stranded here and there in all sorts of unknown positions, almost always in unsuccessful positions.

“Ah, what do you know!” Will responds, the retort of someone without a reply. “Let me tell you what I know,” says Chuckie. “Every day I come by your house and I pick you up. You know what the best part of my day is? For about ten seconds, when I pull up to the curb and when I get up to your door, because I think maybe I’ll get there and I’ll knock

Ah, if he could only die

Jane looked at the card afterwards, and learned that it had been sent by the Wabash Valley Quarter-Midget Racing Association. Wrong corpse.

That Thomas had worked for the Chronicle since 1976 was easily established, as was the fact that he’d published three brief novels since that date. Out of a sense of delicacy Carleton never mentioned that he owned all three of these, and found them elegant and elliptical, couched in prose that had the cadence of the King James Bible, and concerned

Irresponsibility of Thought.