He warned against time wasted in... the bottomless quicksand of cliché, both of word and of thought. - R. A. Lafferty

Half a century went by. Clarence Big-Saddle called his son. ‘I’ve had it, boy,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll just go in the house and die.’ ‘OK, Dad,’ the son Clarence Little-Saddle said. ‘I’m going in to town to shoot a few games of pool with the boys. I’ll bury you when I get back this evening.

Happy people have no need to talk.

Stilicho first talked of himself; and then of the Empire, which was an extension of himself. He gave it as his studied and honest opinion that he was the best horseman in the world, the best archer and targeteer, the best lancer, and that he had been the best swordsman; one cannot remain the best with the sword without spending six to eight hours a day in the practice of it. Stilicho attested that he was the greatest foot soldier alive, being able to cover afoot seventy Roman miles over rough country between midnight and midnight under the full weight of arms and provisions — about a hundred pounds in modern weight. Stilicho could endure hunger and thirst and privation beyond all others; he could plan and project more than could another man; he could hold every detail of a countryside in his head, and could recall the underfoot stones of a night path a dozen years later. He could see the pattern of affairs and the pattern behind the pattern.
Stilicho spoke of himself without vainglory, and certainly without modesty. He acknowledged that it was unusual for one man so to excel in everything; but was happy that that one person should be such a responsible person as himself. He gave the opinion that even in himself it would be a short-term affair. Soon his hand and his mind would weaken a little, and soon another man — probably one of them — would move into his place. A dozen years, he told them, is an extreme limit of the time in which a man may serve faultlessly