Tell them to send everything that can fly.

I see the face of a child. He lives in a great city. He is black. Or he is white. He is Mexican, Italian, Polish. None of that matters. What matters, he's an American child.

Now that all the members of the press are so delighted I lost, I'd like to make a statement. As I leave you I want you to know -just think how much you'll be missing. You won't have Nixon to kick around anymore because, gentlemen, this is my last press conference.

If the President does it, it can't be illegal.

Most days I feel like the sole survivor of a shipwreck, rowing my paddleboat across a sea of people on waves made of an infinite array of hands and crests that reveal anonymous faces. On a good day, the clouds part to alight on-lo and behold-an island! I step ashore, only find that it too is made of people, mangled bodies somehow still alive. They grab at my feet, pulling me under like quicksand. The last thing I see before suffocating is the sky, a billion eyes staring down, blinking in undulating electric ripples. The cold rain I feel on my cheeks is the tears of the people.

There can be no whitewash at the White House.

Communism denies God, enslaves men, and destroys justice.