All that remains is for a few dots and commas to be crossed.
Poets are interested mostly in death and commas.
Commas in The New Yorker fall with the precision of knives in a circus act, outlining the victim.
I have been fighting over commas all my life.
Prose writers are interested mostly in life and commas.
We prefer to think that the absence of inverted commas guarantees the originality of a thought, whereas it may be merely that the utterer has forgotten its source.
Anyone who finds himself putting down several commas close to one another should reflect that he is making himself disagreeable.
The commas are the most useful and usable of all the stops. It is highly important to put them in place as you go along. If you try to come back after doing a paragraph and stick them in the various spots that tempt you you will discover that they tend to swarm like minnows into sorts of crevices whose existence you hadn't realized and before you know it the whole long sentence becomes immobilized and lashed up squirming in commas. Better to use them sparingly, and with affection, precisely when the need for each one arises, nicely, by itself.
Commas, like nuns, often travel in pairs.
So, she tells me, the words dribbling out with the cranberry muffin crumbs, commas dunked in her coffee.
I work through life with commas. I don't even know, do you have parentheticals?
The proper use of commas is often more art than science.
Now, you lose something in your life, or you come into a conflict, and there's gonna come a time that you're gonna know: There was a reason for that. And at the end of your life, all the things you thought were periods, they turn out to be commas. There was never a full stop in any of it.
I hate commas in the wrong places.
