Because Language Is The Carrier

What We Suffer, What We Endure, What We Muff, What We Kill, What We Miss, What We Are Guilty Of, Is Done By Us, As Individuals, In Private.

A Thousand Kindnesses Do Not Make Up For A Thousand Blows.

The Intellectual Is A Middle-class Product; If He Is Not Born Into The Class He Must Soon Insert Himself Into It, In Order To Exist. He Is The Fine Nervous Flower Of The Bourgeoisie.

The Measured Blood Beats Out The Year's Delay.

O Remember In Your Narrowing Dark Hours That More Things Move Than Blood In The Heart.