He’s about seventy-one, a retired lawyer with a reputation for grouchiness. But it’s less grouchiness, I think, than a simple unwillingness to put up… - Jack Finney

This was in January, and we’d just had nearly a month of rain, fog, and wet chill. Then California did what it does several times every winter and for which I always forgive it anything. The rain stopped, the sun came out, the sky turned an unclouded blue, and the temperature went up into the high seventies. Everything was lush from the winter rains and there was no way to distinguish those three or four days from summer, and I walked into town in shirtsleeves.

Once in a while you’re momentarily conscious of being happy. But I’m superstitious, and I picture Fate—best be respectful, and use a capital F—as a misty presence somewhere up in the sky but not too far away. Always listening, alert and ready to punish forbidden optimism.

“Why didn’t you tell Doug about it, Mr. Nordstrum?”
“Because he’s a fool. Has it all figured out what he’s going to believe for the rest of his life; it takes a fool to do that.