Come on you raver, you seer of visions, come on you painter, you piper, you prisoner, and shine.

Cripes Miss Wilcox, they're not guns,' I said. No, they're not Mattie, they're books. And a hundred times more dangerous.

Together in our house, in the firelight, we are the world made small.

The world goes on, stupid and brutal, but I do not. Can't you see? I do not.

I will go out again this very night with my rockets and fuses. I will blow them straight out of their comfortable beds. Blow the rooftops off their houses. Blow the black, wretched night to bits. I will not stop. For mad I may be, but I will never be convenient.

I play until my fingertips are raw. Until I rip a nail and bleed on the strings. Until my hands hurt so bad I forget my heart does.

History is a Rorschach test, people. What you see when you look at it tells you as much about yourself as it does about the past.