It's much worse to read criticism about your son than yourself.
The fear of God is freedom, joy, and peace; And makes all ills that vex us here to cease.
The lark that shuns on lofty boughs to build, Her humble nest, lies silent in the field.
Tea does our fancy aid, Repress those vapours which the head invade And keeps that palace of the soul serene.
Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.
Illustrious acts high raptures do infuse, And every conqueror creates a muse.
Poets lose half the praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot.
The beauty of doing a series is that, over the course of time, it's like peeling an onion. You're able to reveal these layers, more and more. You just don't want to reveal too much, too soon.
I just don't feel like I have to explain myself.
I loved Dad more for treating the biological reality as trivial, irrelevant. He loved me no less than his other three children.
So what if right now everything is wrong?