Slowly But Surly I Want To Strip

A Great Wind Swept Over The Ghetto, Carrying Away Shame, Invisibility And Four Centuries Of Humiliation. But When The Wind Dropped People Saw It Had Been Only A Little Breeze, Friendly, Almost Gentle.

The Pimp Has A Grin, Never A Smile.

Slowly But Surly I Want To Strip Her Of Every Kind Of Happiness As To Make A Saint Of Her.

The Fame Of Heroes Owes Little To The Extent Of Their Conquests And All To The Success Of The Tributes Paid To Them.

The Despondency That Follows Makes Me Feel Somewhat Like A Shipwrecked Man Who Spies A Sail, Sees Himself Saved, And Suddenly Remembers That The Lens Of His Spyglass Has A Flaw, A Blurred Spot -- The Sail He Has Seen.