I Believe In The Compelling Power Of

Shakespeare, I Come!

Art Is The Stored Honey Of The Human Soul, Gathered On Wings Of Misery And Travail.

Your Writer, Your Scientist, Your Chief Official, All Have Lost The Power To Revive The Early Illusion Concerning Fame And High Place. Their Beauty And Delight Is Like The Mirage In The Heavens, Only Plain To The Eye Outside; Within Is Nothing.

Life Is A God-damned, Stinking, Treacherous Game And Nine Hundred And Ninety-nine Men Out Of A Thousand Are Bastards.

The Most Futile Thing In This World Is Any Attempt, Perhaps, At Exact Definition Of Character. All Individuals Are A Bundle Of Contradictions - None More So Than The Most Capable.