Why can’t the world hear? I ask myself. Within a few moments I ask it many times. Because it doesn’t care, I finally answer, and I know I’m right. It’s like I’ve been chosen. But chosen for what? I ask.

People observe the colors of a day only at its beginnings and ends, but to me it's quite clear that a day merges through a multitude of shades and intonations with each passing moment. A single hour can consist of thousands of different colors. Waxy yellows, cloud-spot blues. Murky darkness. In my line of work, I make it a point to notice them.

Please, trust me, I most definitely can be cheerful. I can be amiable. Agreeable. Affable. And that's only the A's. Just don't ask me to be nice. Nice has nothing to do with me.

It amazes me what humans can do, even when streams are flowing down their faces and they stagger on, coughing and searching, and finding.

Imagine smiling after a slap in the face. Then think of doing it twenty-four hours a day.

Clearly," said Arthur,"you're an idiot- but you're our kind of idiot. Come on.

An attribute of Rosa Hubermann, she was a good woman for a crisis.