Hale, With A Tasty Love Of Intellectual

Immortality Is Like Trying To Carve Your Initials In A Block Of Ice In The Middle Of July.

The Witch-hunt Was A Perverse Manifestation Of The Panic Which Set In Among All Classes When The Balance Began To Turn Toward Greater Individual Freedom. The Witch-hunt Was Not, However, A Mere Repression. It Was Also, And As Importantly, A Long Overdue Opportunity For Everyone So Inclined To Express Publicly His Guilt And Sins, Under The Cover Of Accusations Against The Victims.

The Price Grew Out Of A Need To Reconfirm The Power Of The Past, The Seedbed Of Current Reality, And The Way To Possibly Reaffirm Cause And Effect In An Insane World.

Pop, I'm Nothing! I'm Nothing, Pop. Can't You Understand That? There's No Spite In It Any More. I'm Just What I Am, That's All.

Nobody Dast Blame This Man. For A Salesman, There Is No Rock Bottom To The Life. He Don't Put A Bolt To A Nut, He Don't Tell You The Law Or Give You Medicine. He's A Man Way Out There In The Blue, Riding On A Smile And A Shoeshine. And When They Start Not Smiling Back -- That's An Earthquake. And Then You Get Yourself A Couple Of Spots On Your Hat, And You're Finished. Nobody Dast Blame This Man. A Salesman Is Got To Dream, Boy. It Comes With The Territory.