All of these are names given me by other people, but not names I would have given myself. My name is not mine, it's theirs. It's a series of costumes put on my life by other people.

Sticks and stones will break our bones, but words will break our hearts.

Even the finest workman needs to inspect his work critically.

I don't think there is a hidden purpose to the universe that you have to puzzle out.

Living things have been doing just that for a long, long time. Through every kind of disaster and setback and catastrophe. We are survivors.

Ignorance and power and pride are a deadly mixture, you know.

Maybe we should develop a Crayola bomb as our next secret weapon. A happiness weapon. A Beauty Bomb. And every time a crisis developed, we would launch one. And people would smile and get a little funny look on their faces and cover the world with imagination.