He's Liked, But He's Not Well Liked.

Life Is An Endless, Truly Endless Struggle. There's No Time When We're Going To Arrive At A Plateau Where The Whole Thing Gets Sorted. It's A Struggle In The Way Every Plant Has To Find It's Own Way To Stand Up Straight. A Lot Of The Time It's A Failure. And Yet It's Not A Failure If Some Enlightenment Comes From It.

The Arts Can Do More To Sustain The Peace Than All The Wars, The Armaments, And The Threats And Warnings Of Politicians.

There Is A Kind Of Perverse Unity Forming Among Us, Born, I Think, Of The Discontent Of All Classes Of People With The Endless Frustration Of Life.

Few Occasions Are As Joyous To Small Children As Funerals, Almost Better Than The Big Wedding Blowouts That Take Place At Night When It's Hard To Stay Awake. A Small Boy Will Never Be Harshly Criticized At A Funeral; He Is More Treasured As Death Comes Close And All His Wickedness Vanishes Before The Inescapable Fact That Thank God, He Is Healthy.

What Is The Most Innocent Place In Any Country? Is It Not The Insane Asylum? These People Drift Through Life Truly Innocent, Unable To See Into Themselves At All.