My mother treated us all equally ... with contempt.

My favourite poem is the one that starts 'Thirty days hath September' because it actually tells you something.

My son is half-Jewish. Can he wade in up to his knees?

Military justice is to justice what military music is to music.

My mother didn't breast-feed me. She said she liked me as a friend.

She remembered home as a place where there were always too many children, a cross man and work piling up around a sick woman.

Mother, you had me, but I never had you.