Some Say I Do It This Way,

I Must Fling Myself Down And Writhe; I Must Strive With Every Piece Of Force I Possess; I Bruise And Batter Myself Against The Floor, The Walls; I Strain And Sob And Exhaust Myself, And Begin Again, And Exhaust Myself Again; But Do I Feel Pain? Never. How Can I Feel Pain? There Is No Place For It.

I Am Not An Irretrievable Skeptic. I Am Not Hopelessly Prejudiced. I Am Perfectly Willing To Believe, And My Mind Is Wide Open; But I Have, As Yet, To Be Convinced. I Am Perfectly Willing, But The Evidence Must Be Sane And Conclusive.

I Always Have On My Mind The Thought That Next Year I Must Do Something Greater, Something More Wonderful.

The Pickpocket Is Usually Very Well Dressed And Of Prepossessing Appearance.

But Then, So Far As I Know, I Am The Only Performer Who Ever Pledged His Assistants To Secrecy, Honor And Allegiance Under A Notarial Oath.