So much for endings. Beginnings are always more fun. True connoisseurs, however, are known to favor the stretch in between, since it's the hardest to do anything with. That's about all that can be said for plots, which anyway are just one thing after another, a what and a what and a what.
The summer day is closed - the sun is set:Well they have done their office, those bright hours,The latest of whose train goes softly outIn the red west. The green blade of the groundHas risen, and herds have cropped it; the young twigHas spread its plaited tissues to the sun;Flowers of the garden and the waste have blownAnd withered; seeds have fallen upon the soil,From bursting cells, and in their graves awaitTheir resurrection. Insects from the poolsHave filled the air awhile with humming wings,That now are still for ever; painted mothsHave wandered the blue sky, and died again
The anxiety, which in this state of their attachment must be the portion of Henry and Catherine, and of all who loved either, as to its final event, can hardly extend, I fear, to the bosom of my readers, who will see in the tell-tale compression of the pages before them, that we are all hastening together to perfect felicity.
All that's behind us. But now they want to know how it feels not to have that question asked. Now they can go along and bug Terry Labonte and Rusty Wallace and some of these other guys who haven't won it. It's definitely special to win the Daytona 500. Now when Darrell (Waltrip) and me are sitting in a rocking chair on the front porch when we're both about 70, he can't say, 'I won it and you didn't'.Said before the 1999 Daytona 500. Dale was killed instantly in a crash on the last lap of the 2001 Daytona 500 (Feb. 18)