I Speak My Own Sins; I Cannot

I Think It's A Mistake To Ever Look For Hope Outside Of One's Self.

He Wants To Live On Through Something - And In His Case, His Masterpiece Is His Son. All Of Us Want That, And It Gets More Poignant As We Get More Anonymous In This World.

Data Is A Lot Like Humans: It Is Born. Matures. Gets Married To Other Data, Divorced. Gets Old. One Thing That It Doesn't Do Is Die. It Has To Be Killed.

Few Occasions Are As Joyous To Small Children As Funerals, Almost Better Than The Big Wedding Blowouts That Take Place At Night When It's Hard To Stay Awake. A Small Boy Will Never Be Harshly Criticized At A Funeral; He Is More Treasured As Death Comes Close And All His Wickedness Vanishes Before The Inescapable Fact That Thank God, He Is Healthy.

There Is A Problem On The So-called Commercial Stage In New York. The Price Of A Ticket Is Exorbitant, And There Are No Longer Original Productions Possible, Apparently, On The Commercial Stage. They Are All Plays That Were Taken From Either England Or Smaller Theaters, Off-broadway Theaters, And So On. The One Justification There Used To Be For The Commercial Theater Was That It Originated Everything We Had, And Now It Originates Nothing. But The Powers That Be Seem Perfectly Content To Have It That Way. They Don't Risk Anything Anymore, And They Simply Pick Off The Cream.