A lollipop speaking baby talk.
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As the Silks walk around the Establishment and poke it with a stick flocks of multicolored anecdotes rise into the air on flapping wings, and, occasionally, a bee stings.
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Aspiring to a soufflé, he achieves a pancake at which the reader saws without much appetite.
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Baseball happens to be a game of cumulative tension but football, basketball and hockey are played with hand grenades and machine guns.
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Books fall from Garry Wills like leaves from a maple tree in a sort of permanent October.
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He seems to have gone to his icebox, pulled out all the cold obsessions, mixed them in a bowl, beat too lightly and baked too long.
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His memoir is a splendid artichoke of anecdotes, in which not merely the heart and leaves but the thistles as well are edible.
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In the cellars of the night, when the mind starts moving around old trunks of bad times, the pain of this and the shame of that, the memory of a small boldness is a hand to hold.
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Isn't it amazing the way the future succeeds in creating an appropriate past?
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It takes a long time to grow an old friend.
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The rich are different from you and me because they have more credit.
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There are too many ironies in the fire.
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