I Check My Pulse And If I

I Don't Go For The So-called "intimate" Stuff. Column Items That Report: "minerva Ferncroft Sleeps In Pink Dusting Powder Between Puce-colored Sheets In A Heart-shaped Bed." It Leaves Me Cold.

I'd Like To Be Remembered As A Guy Who Tried - Who Tried To Be Part Of His Times, Tried To Help People Communicate With One Another, Tried To Find Some Decency In His Own Life, Tried To Extend Himself As A Human Being. Someone Who Isn't Complacent, Who Doesn't Cop Out.

Acting Isn't Really A Creative Profession. It's An Interpretative One.

I Wish I Could Recall With Clarity The Impulse That Compelled Me To Help Bring This Camp Into Being. I'd Be Pleased If I Could Announce A Motive Of Lofty Purpose. I've Been Accused Of Compassion, Of Altruism, Of Devotion To Christian, Hebrew, And Muslim Ethic, But However Desperate I Am To Claim Ownership Of A High Ideal, I Cannot. I Wanted, I Think, To Acknowledge Luck; The Chance Of It, The Benevolence Of It In My Life, And The Brutality Of It In The Lives Of Others, Made Especially Savage For Children Because They May Not Be Allowed The Good Fortune Of A Lifetime To Correct It.

No Sense In Being A Grifter If It's The Same As Being A Citizen.