In the end, the Tribune lost touch with the world it was supposed to reach; it mattered passionately, but almost exclusively, to those who worked for it.

You can only stare at a clown mask so long. After a few minutes it's no big deal anymore. So people start paying attention to the music instead of what the clown is doing, or what he is wearing, or how cool his spikey hair is.

Muffled lives explode in understatements.

Cats are kindly masters, just so long as you remember your place.

The image of the reporter as a nicotine-stained Quixote, slugging back Scotch while skewering city hall with an expose ripped out of a typewriter on the crack of deadline, persists despite munificent evidence to the contrary.

In the end, the Tribune lost touch with the world it was supposed to reach; it mattered passionately, but almost exclusively, to those who worked for it.

Cats were put into the world to disprove the dogma that all things were created to serve man.