I feel good with my husband: I like his warmth and his bigness and his being-there and his making and his jokes and stories and what he reads and how he likes fishing and walks and pigs and foxes and little animals and is honest and not vain or fame-crazy and how he shows his gladness for what I cook him and joy for when I make him something, a poem or a cake, and how he is troubled when I am unhappy and wants to do anything so I can fight out my soul-battles and grow up with courage and a philosophical ease. I love his good smell and his body that fits with mine as if they were made in the same body-shop to do just that. What is only pieces, doled out here and there to this boy and that boy, that made me like pieces of them, is all jammed together in my husband. So I don't want to look around any more: I don't need to look around for anything.
Using my nipples as bait, I went fishing for compliments. I got a few bites, but nothing to write about in Field & Stream.
Fishing is a delusion entirely surrounded by liars in old clothes.
There's a fine line between fishing and just standing on the shore like an idiot.
Last year I went fishing with Salvador Dali. He was using a dotted line. He caught every other fish.
If people concentrated on the really important things in life, there'd be a shortage of fishing poles.
A fishing rod is a stick with a hook at one end and a fool at the other.