Ah, when to the heart of man Was it ever less than a treason To go with the drift of things, To yield with a grace to reason, And bow and accept the end Of a love or a season?

Both T.S. Eliot and I like to play, but I like to play euchre, while he likes to play Eucharist.

Butterflies...flowers that fly and all but sing.

Any work of art must first of all tell a story.

The test is always how we treat the poor.

It looked as if a night of dark intent was coming, and not only a night, an age. Someone had better be prepared for rage.

The only way out is to go through