And In Fact, I Think One Of

The Devil Isn't Made By What Mommy Says Or What Daddy Says. The Devil Is There.

All My Wife Has Ever Taken From The Mediterranean - From That Whole Vast Intuitive Culture - Are Four Bottles Of Chianti To Make Into Lamps, And Two China Condiment Donkeys Labelled Sally And Peppy.

Worship Isn't Destructive, Martin. I Know That. I Don't. I Only Know It's The Core Of His Life. What Else Has He Got? He Can Hardly Read. He Knows No Physics Or Engineering To Make To World Real For Him. No Paintings To Show Him How Others Have Enjoyed It. No Music Except Television Jingles. No History Except Tales From A Desperate Mother. No Friends. Not One Kid To Give Him A Joke, Or Make Him Know Himself More Moderately. He's A Modern Citizen For Whom Society Doesn't Exist.

Rehearsing A Play Is Making The Word Flesh. Publishing A Play Is Reversing The Process.

What Was Evident Was That Mozart Was Simply Transcribing Music Completely Finished In His Head. And Finished As Most Music Is Never Finished. Displace One Note And There Would Be Diminishment. Displace One Phrase And Structure Would Fall. I Was Staring Through The Cage Of Those Meticulous Ink Strokes At Absolute Beauty.