Tea Cake, The Son Of The Evening

Such As I Am, I Am A Precious Gift.

The Liquor Of Statecraft Is Distilled From The Mash You Got.

I Do Not Pray. . . . I Do Not Expect God To Single Me Out And Grant Me Advantages Over My Fellow Men. . . . Prayer Seems To Me A Cry Of Weakness, And An Attempt To Avoid, By Trickery, The Rules Of The Game As Laid Down. I Do Not Choose To Admit Weakness. I Accept The Challenge Of Responsibility.

When A Man Keeps Beating Me To The Draw Mentally, He Begins To Get Glamorous.

I Have A Strong Suspicion . That Much That Passes For Constant Love Is A Golded- Up Moment Walking In Its Sleep.