And now, before I forget them all, more quotes and bon mots from my personal collection:

“I’m not an actor, I’m a movie star.”

Peter O’Toole, as Alan Swann, in my favorite film, “My Favorite Year,” a 1982 comedy about a 1950s TV show, with a poignant turn into the space between hero worship and enabling an alcoholic.

“I haven’t seen a man chew gum like that since Jean-Paul Belmondo in ‘Breathless.’”

What I heard a woman say about a guy who attracted her attention across a sprawling Baltimore office.

“Our faith is a living thing precisely because it walks hand in hand with doubt. If there was only certainty, and if there was no doubt, there would be no mystery, and therefore no need for faith.”

Ralph Fiennes, as Cardinal Lawrence, in “Conclave”

“Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendía was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice.”

This opening line of “One Hundred Years of Solitude” is one of the greatest in literature. The 1967 novel brought Gabriel Garcia Marquez international fame and, years later, the Nobel Prize in Literature. It is an extraordinary and challenging read. I always suggest Marquez’s 1988 novel, “Love In The Time of Cholera,” for those just starting to read his work. Also, “The Story of a Shipwrecked Sailor” is nonfiction, from his days as a journalist in Columbia, and a great tale.

“It’s what Ted Williams had striking out but that Stan Musial lacked hitting a homerun.”

The late George Frazier, columnist for The Boston Globe and jazz critic, used this line to explain “duende,” the mysterious, charismatic spirit that appears only in certain performers, and only at certain times.

“That’s a bunch of junk!”

How Monroe Cornish, candidate for mayor of Baltimore in 1983, repeatedly described the positions of his Democratic opponents during a live televised debate.

“Fishin’ ain’t catchin’.”

A favorite expression of an old friend, Tom “Bush Hog” James, who believed fishing was more about friendships than fish.

“With his pin-striped suit and club tie, Bobby stood out like the America’s Cup yacht at a Middle River marina.”

My description of Robert S. Shriver III when he appeared in Southeastern District Court to face the misdemeanor charge of scalping tickets to an Orioles-White Sox play off game, October 1983.

I could proudly fill numerous columns with the prose of the late Carl Schoettler, one of the finest feature writers for the Sunpapers of Baltimore. Here’s what he wrote of artist Harry Evans Jr.: “He loved to paint a long block of rowhouses — say ‘East Pratt Street near Central Avenue’ — stretching toward infinity in a blaze of purples, reds, violets, greens and yellows lush as a bank of bougainvillea.”

Here’s what Carl wrote about the last Orioles game at Memorial Stadium in 1991 and the “Field of Dreams” spectacle that brought so many great players onto the diamond for the last time: “Fifty thousand fans stood up and roared when Brooks Robinson trotted out to third base, the first of the Orioles in the post-game ceremonies. He flicked a ball into his glove with a gesture as familiar as your father’s touch, your brother’s arm across your shoulder.”

When I was a cub reporter for The Evening Sun, I worked a story about a man whose bonding company was under federal investigation. He supposedly had provided performance bonds for city contractors who were not qualified for them. We had a meeting at his office on Saratoga Street to get his comment on the allegations. “Sonny,” he said, “if that’s true, you can kiss my — 42nd Street Times Square and I’ll give you 20 minutes to draw a crowd.” I reported that as “denied the allegations.”

The late Melvin Perkins was a perennial candidate for political office. He ran for governor, for mayor, for Congress. He ran as a Republican, as a Democrat. He kept all his files in shopping bags and coat pockets. He spent time in jail and other institutions. One day, he wandered into the Sun newsroom. An editor told him to leave and called him a lunatic. “Oh, yeah?” Melvin said. “I have a document from a judge certifying that I’m sane. Do you?”

A memorable headline from a gardening column in The Evening Sun: “You can put pickles up yourself.”

On campaign finance reform, the late Dominic “Mimi” DiPietro, a member of the Baltimore City Council from 1966 to 1991, said: “I don’t think a politician should have to tell people he’s a fat cat until after the election.”

One day back in the 1980s, in the newsroom of the bygone Baltimore Evening Sun, reporters and editors were astonished at a photograph of an historic Chesapeake skipjack on the bay. It was a wonderful image, taken that very day from the deck of one skipjack and showing another under sail at sunrise. A surprise to all because the photographer who took the picture was often suspected of shooting photos from the front seat of his car: “Great shot,” said reporter Michael Wentzel, “but how did [the photographer] get his car on the deck of that skipjack?”

Many winters ago, as a new homeowner, I discovered the furnace on the fritz and called the home heating company for a repair. A tall, taciturn fellow named Harold came out to fix it. He fixed it by turning the power switch on. I felt stupid. “Don’t worry,” he assured me. “You’re normal.”