It's so sweet, I feel like my teeth are rotting when I listen to the radio.
I became a connoisseur of that nasty thud a manuscript makes when it comes through the letter box.
If a farmer calls me to a sick animal, he couldn't care less if I were George Bernard Shaw.
I will write another book if I feel like it.
There was no last animal I treated. When young farm lads started to help me over the gate into a field or a pigpen, to make sure the old fellow wouldn't fall, I started to consider retiring.
It was Sunday morning (one a. m. ), a not unusual time for some farmers, after a late Saturday night, to have a look round their stock and decide to send for the vet.
They can't find my house now because I keep it very quiet where I live.
What's worse? Being strung out or being fat?
Such technological tools. . . are helping us now in the hot war against terrorists who would bomb this theater if they had the capacity to do so.
There is always, in the fine arts, a physical interface between the artist's esthetic vision and the material result he seeks. The interface may be the application of brush to canvas, chisel to marble, bow to string. . . It may be the control of voice in song or the control of body in dance. It is the mastery of the interface that comprises the artistry; it is what constitutes the 'art' in fine art.
Dialogic is not to be identified with love. But love without dialogic, without real outgoing to the other, reaching to the other, the love remaining with itself - this is called Lucifer.