There's No Heart Like The Indian Heart.

Let Me Explain Something To You. Look Around Here. How Many People Do You Count? Sixty, Eighty, Eighty People? Greeks, Germans, Italians, French, Americans. Tourists From Everywhere. Eating, Drinking, Talking, Laughing. And From Bombay - Indians And Iranians And Afghans And Arabs And Africans. But How Many Of These People Have Real Power, Real Destiny, Real Dynamic For Their Place, And Their Time, And The Lives Of Thousand Of People? I Will Tell You - Four. Four People In This Room With Power, And The Rest Are Like The Rest Of The People Everywhere: Powerless, Sleepers In The Dream.

There's A Theory That Snoring At Night In Sleep Is A Subconscious Defence Reflex-a Warning Sound That Frightened Potential Predators Away From The Mouth Of The Cave When Our Lower-paleolithic Ancestors Huddled In Vulnerable Sleep. That Group Of Nomads, Cameleers, Sheep And Goat Herders, Farmers, And Guerilla Fighters Lent Credibility To The Idea, For They Snored So Thunderously And With Such Persistent Ferocity Through The Long, Cold Night That They Would've Frightened A Pride Of Ravenous Lions Into Scattering Like Startled Mice.

A Man Trusts Another Man When He Sees Enough Of Himself In Him.

What Is It?" She Asked. "i'm Looking For Your Wings. You Are My Guardian Angel, Aren't You?" "i'm Afraid Not," She Replied, Her Cheeks Dimplingwith A Wry Smile. "there's Too Much Of The Devil In Me For That." "just How Much Devil," I Grinned, "are We Talking About Here?

Because My Life Has Been So Notorious And So Bad, It Can Overshadow My Work.