I've always been impulsive. My thinking is usually pretty good, but I always seem to do it after I do my talking — by which time I've generally destroyed all basis for further conversation.

In the mirrors of the many judgments, my hands are the color of blood. I sometimes fancy myself an evil which exists to oppose other evils; and on that great Day of which the prophets speak but in which they do not truly believe, on the day the world is utterly cleansed of evil, then I too will go down into darkness, swallowing curses. Until then, I will not wash my hands nor let them hang useless.

I watched the spinning stars, grateful, sad and proud, as only a man who has outlived his destiny and realizes he might yet forge himself another, can be.

Of course it does not apply to me. I am the soul of honor, kindness, mercy and goodness. Trust me in all things.

If the liberal arts do nothing else they provide engaging metaphors for the thinking they displace.

I know, too, that death is the only god who comes when you call.

When inspiration is silent reason tires quickly.