God help me, I'm just not that bright.

For they imagined as they wished--that it was a wild shot,/ an unintended killing--fools, not to comprehend/ they were already in the grip of death./ But glaring under his brows Odysseus answered: 'You yellow dogs, you thought I'd never make it/ home from the land of Troy. You took my house to plunder,/ twisted my maids to serve your beds. You dared/ bid for my wife while I was still alive./ Contempt was all you had for the gods who rule wide heaven,/ contempt for what men say of you hereafter./ Your last hour has come. You die in blood.

One who contends with immortals lives a very short life.

Sensitive love letters are my specialty. 'Dear Baby, Welcome to Dumpsville. Population: you.'

Which would you rather be, a conqueror in the Olympic games, or the crier that proclaims who are conquerors?

Is he not sacred, even to the gods, the wandering man who comes in weariness?

Miserable mortals who like leaves at one moment flame with life eating the produce of the land and at another moment weakly perish.