The secret of showmanship consists not of what you really do, but what the mystery-loving public thinks you do.

Fire has always been and, seemingly, will always remain, the most terrible of the elements.

I must fling myself down and writhe; I must strive with every piece of force I possess; I bruise and batter myself against the floor, the walls; I strain and sob and exhaust myself, and begin again, and exhaust myself again; but do I feel pain? Never. How can I feel pain? There is no place for it.

The secret of showmanship consists not of what you really do, but what the mystery-loving public thinks you do.

I always have on my mind the thought that next year I must do something greater, something more wonderful.

How the early priests came into possession of these secrets does not appear, and if there were ever any records of this kind the Church would hardly allow them to become public.

But it must not be thought that I say this out of personal experience: for in the many years that I have been before the public my secret methods have been steadily shielded by the strict integrity of my assistants, most of whom have been with me for years.