To literature belongs the mighty privilege of embalming, for all ages, the departed kings of intellect. There they repose within the eternal pyramids of their fame. – Robert Aris Willmott, “Glimpses of the Pageant of Literature,” c.1844
And we turned off and 30 miles south theyre standing in the middle of our road blocking our way, stopped the car, got out, took us through the path in the woods, where the craft was on the ground. – Betty Hill