What we think of as our sensitivity is only the higher evolution of terror in a poor dumb beast. We suffer for nothing. Our own death wish is our only real tragedy. – Mario Puzo
The work is with me when I wake up in the morning it is with me while I eat my breakfast in bed and run through the newspaper, while I shave and bathe and dress. – C. S. Forester
The refined scholar sustains himself on the finest aged wines of poetry but should take time occasionally to partake of cheap-ale words. – Terri Guillemets, “Drinking Literature,” 2003
