The dust will not settle in our time. And when it does some great roaring machine will come and whirl it all skyhigh again.
I have my faults, but changing my tune is not one of them.
Adulterers, take warning, never admit.
To him who has nothing it is forbidden not to relish filth.
Words are all we have.
I speak for an art ... weary of its puny exploits, weary of pretending to be able, of being able, of doing a little better the same old thing, of going a little further along a dreary road.