A Mother Never Realizes That Her Children

Just Spunk Won't Be Enough; You've Got To Have Gumption.

The Camera Is Just A Machine, Which Records With Impressive And As A Rule Very Cruel Faithfulness.

Truth Lies Within A Little And Certain Compass, But Error Is Immense.

And Somewhat As In Blind Night, On A Mild Sea, A Sailor May Be Made Aware Of An Iceberg, Fanged And Mortal, Bearing Invisibly Near, By The Unwarned Charm Of Its Breath, Nothingness Now Revealed Itself: That Permanent Night Upon Which The Stars In Their Expiring Generations Are Less Than The Glinting Of Gnats, And Nebulae, More Trivial Than Winter Breath; That Darkness In Which Eternity Lies Bent And Pale, A Dead Snake In A Jar, And Infinity Is The Sparkling Of A Wren Blown Out To Sea; That Inconceivable Chasm Of Invulnerable Silence In Which Cataclysms Of Galaxies Rave Mute As Amber.

And A Human Being Whose Life Is Nurtured In An Advantage Which Has Accrued From The Disadvantage Of Other Human Beings, And Who Prefers That This Should Remain As It Is, Is A Human Being By Definition Only, Having Much More In Common With The Bedbug, The Tapeworm, The Cancer, And The Scavengers Of The Deep Sea.