...golf appeals to the idiot in us, and the child. … Just how childlike golf players become is proven by their frequent inability to count past five. - John Updike

Although this block of brick three-stories is just like the one he left, something in it makes him happy; the steps and windowsills seem to twitch and shift in the corner of his eye, alive. This illusion trips him. His hands lift of their own and he feels the wind on his ears even before, his heels hitting heavily on the pavement at first but with an effortless gathering out of a kind of sweet panic growing lighter and quicker and quieter, he runs. Ah: runs. Runs.

A company of believers is like a prison full of criminals; their intimacy and solidarity is based on what they can least justify about themselves.

[re the human heart] That little electric twitch: without it we're so much rotting meat.