Satire Is Focused Bitterness.

Her Cooking Suggested She Had Attended The Cordon Noir.

In The Dark Colony Of Night, When I Consider Man's Magnificent Capacity For Malice, Madness, Folly, Envy, Rage, And Destructiveness, And I Wonder Whether We Shall Not End Up As Breakfast For Newts And Polyps, I Seem To Hear The Muffled Cries Of All The Words In All The Books With Covers Closed.

For Some Not To Be Martyrs Is Martyrdom Indeed.

Everyone, In Some Small Sacred Sanctuary Of The Self, Is Nuts.

Words Sing. They Hurt. They Teach. They Sanctify. They Were Man's First, Immeasurable Feat Of Magic. They Liberated Us From Ignorance And Our Barbarous Past.