I Think I Did Have Fantasies About

If London Is A Watercolor, New York Is An Oil Painting.

The Best Of Mozart's Works Cannot Be Even Slightly Rewritten Without Diminishment.

Figaro Is A Bad Play. It Stirs Up Hatred Between The Classes. In France, It Has Caused Nothing But Bitterness. My Own Dear Sister,antoinette, Writes Me That She Is Beginning To Be Frightened Of Her Own People.

He'll Be Delivered From Madness. What Then? He'll Feel Himself Acceptable! What Then? Do You Think Feelings Like His Can Be Simply Re-attached, Like Plasters? Stuck On To Other Objects We Select? Look At Him! ... My Desire Might Be To Make This Boy An Ardent Husband - A Caring Citizen - A Worshipper Of Abstract And Unifying God. My Achievement, However, Is More Likely To Make A Ghost!

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.