Can anyone remember love? It's like trying to summon up the smell of roses in a cellar. You might see a rose, but never the perfume.
From Arthur Miller
I'm the end of the line; absurd and appalling as it may seem, serious New York theater has died in my lifetime.
Man must shape his tools lest they shape him.
Where choice begins, Paradise ends, innocence ends, for what is Paradise but the absence of any need to choose this action?
A good newspaper, I suppose, is a nation talking to itself.
All we are is a lot of talking nitrogen.
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