I'm an incurable romantic. The essence of romance is an unshakable conviction that next time will be different.

Soldiers live. He dies and not you, and you feel guilty, because you're glad he died, and not you. Soldiers live, and wonder why.

Time will unfold its leaves.

I guess I suffer from an impoverishment of the sociopathic spirit necessary to go big time.

There were dreams once upon a time, dreams now all but forgotten. On sad days I dust them off and fondle them nostalgically, with a patronizing wonder at the naivete of the youth who dreamed them.

There are no self-proclaimed villains, only regiments of self-proclaimed saints. Victorious historians rule where good or evil lies.

Rich men have dreams. Poor men die to make them come true.