He turned around to see the bass drum popping and the horn sections pointing their instruments to the balconies and sending glorious notes to the rooftops.

The only way he could truly stick out in New Orleans was if he were walking down the street on fire.

The morning sun in New Orleans felt like it was trying to make a point, convincing the old world to believe something new.

He sunk his head down, looking like a defeated giant out of some fairy tale.

Toulouse Street ran one way toward the Mississippi River. Jackson looked over [Imogene's] head into one of those famous New Orleans courtyards, full of lush foliage, mossy brick, secrets, and wonder.

Buddy ran down the road, turned into another street, and vanished as if he had never been there, like another ghost from New Orleans's past.

The carriage could only clop along at about ten miles per hour, which only accentuated Imogene’s excitement. She urged it onward: "Fly, horse, fly!

Imagination is the sacred intuition.

You pass people on the street, some are for you, some are not.

I'd like my super power to be puns; I'd like to be great at puns: pun power. Then I could go on loads of panel shows and live off that forever.

These evils I deserve, and more . . . . Justly, yet despair not of his final pardon, Whose ear is ever open, and his eye Gracious to re-admit the suppliant.

I always loved those songs. And with my high tenor, I thought I was pretty good - you know? - almost as good as Dennis Day.

A literally perfect style should conceal itself so completely behind what it expresses that it goes unnoticed.

Time passed so much more slowly than space.

These greens are so fast I have to hold my putter over the ball and hit it with the shadow.

The only time I'm miserable is when I can't keep an instrument in tune.

I think I became [writer] despite myself - tricking myself into it, really.