Only the female duck quacks. Male ducks whistle, make a nasal rhaeb sound, and grunt.

[N]obody wants you to shoot crooked. Take good iron to it, and not footy paving-stones.

Be a bum in this part of town, he knew, keep rhythm with your fingers, sport a Walkman or a third-world briefcase—people might shrug, but they would never remember your face.

...and it is the expression of that haunting desire of association, those vine-like emotions of the human heart which fasten on whatever is near, that give an interest like truth to the poet's fiction, who says that the mournful waters and the drooping trees murmur with his murmurs, and sorrow with his sorrows.