Maybe There Are Only Three Kinds Of

One Of The Greatest Gifts My Father Gave Me - Unintentionally - Was Witnessing The Courage With Which He Bore Adversity.

We Have Not Yet Arrived, But Every Point At Which We Stop Requires A Re-definition Of Our Destination.

Wholeness Is The Enemy Of The Artist. We Ought To Be Broken, Ruined In Some Way.

A Dream Can Be The Highest Point Of A Life

To Poison A Nation, Poison Its Stories. A Demoralised Nation Tells Demoralised Stories To Itself. Beware Of The Storytellers Who Are Not Fully Conscious Of The Importance Of Their Gifts, And Who Are Irresponsible In The Application Of Their Art: They