Memory inevitably romanticizes, pressing reality to recede like pain.

The famous are balloons far up in the sky, to be envied for their quiet freedom or shot down as enemies.

Because it is my name! Because I cannot have another in my life! Because I lie and sign myself to lies! Because I am not worth the dust on the feet of them that hang! How may I live without my name? I have given you my soul; leave me my name!

The brain heals the past like an injury.

PROCTOR--he knows it is insane: No, it is not the same! What others say and what i sign to is not the same!

I am bewildered by the death of love. And my responsibility for it.

I know that my works are a credit to this nation and I dare say they will endure longer than the McCarran Act.