facts are nothing on the face of things. is a tumblelog.

Pianos seem to have been thrown around with frenzied violence—an observation that says as much about the popularity of pianos as it does about the strength of the shocks.

I only get frightened when, and it happens very rarely, I think I have an idea.

The planet very briefly shrugged.

The pleasure of sport was so often the chance to indulge in the cessation of time itself—the pitcher dawdling on the mound, the skier poised at the top of a mountain trail, the basketball player with the rough skin of the ball against his palm preparing for a foul shot, the tennis player at set point over his opponent—all of them savoring a moment before committing themselves to action.

Everything that we have has come from a suggestion by someone else…I am not ashamed of it, because the man who thinks he can place himself against the world’s evolution, against the combined knowledge of the word, it pretty poor stuff.

you ought to read a book called Shop Management. It’s by an American engineer named F. W. Taylor; he can’t write for nuts. But he’s got something.