Consider The Public. Never Fear It Nor

What I Adore Is Supreme Professionalism. I’m Bored By Writers Who Can Write Only When It’s Raining.

I'm An Enormously Talented Man, And There's No Use Pretending That I'm Not.

An Infant Prodigy Of Nine Is Shoved Upon The Stage In White. She Starts Off In A Dismal Whine About A Dark And Stormy Night, A Burglar, Whose Heart Is True, Despite His Wicked-looking Face, Who Puts The Little Child In Doom, To Save Her Mamma's Jewel Case. This May Bring Tears To Every Eye; It Does Not Set My Heart On Fire. I'd Like To Stand Serenely By And Watch That Horrid Child Expire.

For Gin, In Cruel Sober Truth, Supplies The Fuel For Flaming Youth.

At Twelve Noon, The Natives Swoon And No Further Work Is Donebut Mad Dogs And Englishmen, Go Out In The Midday Sun.