I guess God made Boston on a wet Sunday.

If it's raining like that on Sunday it would be too wet,

I moved here from Boston in 1981 and got the feeling that not much happened around here with running. Six months later, there's the first Kingston Classic and all that thinking changed. I love the day and for me it signals that we made it through another Catskill winter.

The flood of print has turned reading into a process of gulping rather than savoring.

There is no bad whiskey. There are only some whiskeys that aren't as good as others.

The main hallway of the Sternwood place was two stories high. Over the entrance doors, which would have let in a troop of Indian elephants, there was a broad stained-glass panel showing a knight in dark armor rescuing a lady who was tied to a tree and didn’t have any clothes on but some very long and convenient hair. The knight had pushed the vizor of his helmet back to be sociable, and he was fiddling with the knots on the ropes that tied the lady to the tree and not getting anywhere. I stood there and thought that if I lived in the house, I would sooner or later have to climb up there and help him. He didn’t seem to be really trying.