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One Of The Very Few Reasons I Had Any Respect For My Mother When I Was Thirteen Was Because She Would Reach Into The Sink With Her Bare Hands - Bare Hands - And Pick Up That Lethal Gunk And Drop It Into The Garbage. To Top That, I Saw Her Reach Into The Wet Garbage Bag And Fish Around In There Looking For A Lost Teaspoon. Bare Hands - A Kind Of Mad Courage.

I Often Say That I Don't Worry About The Meaning Of Life-i Can't Handle That Big Stuff. What Concerns Me Is The Meaning In Life-day By Day, Hour By Hour, While I'm Doing Whatever It Is I Do. What Counts Is Not What I Do, But How I Think About Myself While I'm Doing It.

Arguing Whether Or Not A God Exists Is Like Fleas Arguing Whether Or Not The Dog Exists. Arguing Over The Correct Name For God Is Like Fleas Arguing Over The Name Of The Dog. And Arguing Over Whose Notion Of God Is Correct Is Like Fleas Arguing Over Who Owns The Dog.

My Own Movement Of Thought Is Not Meant To Be A Straight Point-to-point, Linear Line Of March, But Horizontal Exploration From One Area Of Interest To Another. There Is No Ultimate Destination - No Finish Line To Cross, No Final Conclusion To Be Reached. It's The Way I Feel About Dancing - You Move Around A Lot, Not To Get Somewhere, But To Be Somewhere In Time.

There Is Nothing In Your Budget For Joy. No Books, No Flowers, No Music, Not Even A Cold Beer. And There Is Nothing In Your Budget To Give Away To Someone Else. We Don’t Help People Who Don’t Have Better Values Than You Do.