What? Corpus. Body. Corpse. Good

There Is Only One Thing That Makes Any One Athlete Better Than Another, His Heart. We All Put Our Underwear On Feet First, So We Are All Human.

Our Civilization, Bequeathed To Us By Fierce Adventurers, Eaters Of Meat And Hunters, Is So Full Of Hurry And Combat, So Busy About Many Things Which Perhaps Are Of No Importance, That It Cannot But See Something Feeble In A Civilization Which Smiles As It Refuses To Make The Battlefield The Test Of Excellence.

It Soared, A Bird, It Held Its Flight, A Swift Pure Cry, Soar Silver Orb It Leaped Serene, Speeding, Sustained, To Come, Don't Spin It Out Too Long Long Breath He Breath Long Life, Soaring High, High Resplendent, Aflame, Crowned, High In The Effulgence Symbolistic, High, Of The Ethereal Bosom, High, Of The High Vast Irradiation Everywhere All Soaring All Around About The All, The Endlessnessnessness.

I Shall Write A Book Some Day About The Appropriateness Of Names. Geoffrey Chaucer Has A Ribald Ring, As Is Proper And Correct, And Alexander Pope Was Inevitably Alexander Pope. Colley Cibber Was A Silly Little Man Without Much Elegance And Shelley Was Very Percy And Very Bysshe.

Never Let Us Do Wrong, Because Our Opponents Did So. Let Us, Rather, By Doing Right, Show Them What They Ought To Have Done, And Establish A Rule The Dictates Of Reason And Conscience, Rather Than Of The Angry Passions.