Now is the dramatic moment of fate, Watson, when you hear a step upon the stair which is walking into your life, and you know not whether for good or ill.

One of the fundamental axioms of masculine self-regard is that the tools and appurtenances of a man's life must be containable within the pockets of his jacket and pants. Wallet, keys, gum, show or ball game tickets, Kleenex, condoms, cell phone, maybe a lighter and a pack of cigarettes: Just cram it all in there, motherfucker.

The baby, not too young to start knowing the ledge, the cold truth, the life-and-death facts of it all. 'What kind of heaven is that, you can't have your records?' The baby, understanding perhaps it was purely rhetorical, made no attempt to answer this question.

A mere redrawing of borders, a change in governments, those things can never faze a Jewess with a good supply of hand wipes in her bag.

She leaned back, closing her eyes and blowing out a thin wisp of smoke. __e was always a good-looking man. Your eyes are from him, the same blue, but you are slimmer of build and have your grandmother__ exotic face rather than his rounder, friendly one. He was a bit of a bounder, as men of his looks are apt to be.__ grinned at this, adding to my mental picture.__e married as often as_ she blinked, laughed, __ell, as often as I did, I suppose, though my reasons were infinitely better.

It's a fallacy to believe that age in itself brings wisdom, but one thing it infallibly brings is experience.