A Correct Answer Is Like

Is An Institution Always A Man's Shadow Shortened In The Sun, The Lowest Common Denominator Of Everybody In It?

The Southern Past, The Southern Present, The Southern Future, Concentrated Into Gertrude's Voice, Became One Of Red Clay Pine-barrens, Of Chain-gang Camps, Of Housewives Dressed In Flour Sacks Who Stare All Day Dully Down Into Dirty Sinks.

Most Works Of Art Are, Necessarily, Bad...; One Suffers Through The Many For The Few.

We Always Tend To Distrust Geniuses About Genius, As If What They Say Didn't Arouse Much Empathy In Us, Or As If We Were Waiting Till Some More Reliable Source Of Information Came Along...

If Wishes Were Stories, Beggars Would Read.