I ought not to speak about the dead because the dead are all over the place.
The more acute the experience, the less articulate its expression.
Isn't it true that every aristocrat wants to die?
Clinton's hands remain incredibly clean, don't they, and Tony Blair's smile remains as wide as ever. I view these guises with profound contempt.
I can't really articulate what I feel.
Apart from the known and the unknown, what else is there?